


A New Resistance

by sunshinedreamer57



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Because this is war, Draco has smelly socks, Gen, He's dead there, Hermione really is too smart for the DoM, Neville doesn't like it, No character bashing, Only small references to romance, Percy gets tackled a lot, Ron gets sent to an Alternate Universe, Sirius talks on missions, Some Character Deaths, Some torture scenes, The Weasley family are Death Eaters, Voldemort never fell, Voldemort's still at large, because seriously, everything's different, this is war
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-14
Updated: 2014-09-08
Packaged: 2018-02-08 20:24:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 43,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1955031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunshinedreamer57/pseuds/sunshinedreamer57
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Discontinued. Forever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the haze of spells during the Final Battle, Ron makes a choice.

Ron Weasley was fighting for his life. Ducking curses, throwing spells, pushing people out of the way—he was a hair away from death. But then again, so was everyone else. It was the Final Battle. The war against Lord Voldemort and his army of Death Eaters had brought the fight to Hogwarts’ hallowed ground. The moment for which everyone had been waiting was upon them. If they did not defeat Voldemort tonight, there was little chance they ever would.

“Ron, watch out!” screamed Hermione Granger, one-third of the Golden Trio and the girl for whom Ron had proclaimed his love just moments prior.

Ron ducked at the correct time, hitting the stone floor hard and rolling onto his knees. Hermione threw a spell more complicated and dangerous than Ron could have ever imagined himself. Without waiting for it to make contact, she grabbed Ron’s wrist and dragged him to an alcove away from all of the flying curses. 

“Hermione, this is bloody insane.” 

Under a layer of battle dust, Hermione smiled. She was a bit breathless, as she said,  “We’ve got to get back out there.” 

Hermione’s hair was singed from the Room of Requirements, and Ron was struck by how strange it was to notice such a thing at this time. He should memorize her face, how her brown eyes shined with hope and how her jaw was set with determination. Instead, he took in the most mundane things about her: how dry and cracked her lips were, how the scrapes she had received from the run-in with the Gringott’s dragon were already scabbed over, and even how a bruise was starting to form on her temple from some blow unknown to him.

“We’ve got to fight,” she insisted. 

“I know,” he said, because he did know. He had to fight for his future, for his family, and even for little Teddy Lupin who had been born in the midst of such an awful war.

Ron leaned in and kissed Hermione briefly. They both knew they might not have a chance to do so once they stepped out of the alcove. It was inevitable; they raised their wands and headed back to the fighting. When asked later about the exact details of the events that followed Ron’s departure from the alcove, he would not be able to put them into words. He knew that Fred and Percy fought side-by-side and that there was an explosion that claimed Fred’s life. He remembered how Hermione restrained him from exacting his revenge, because the death of Nagini, a horcrux, was more vital to the defeat of Voldemort. The one thing he had trouble recalling, though, was the identity of the person who sent the curse at Hermione—the very same curse in front of which Ron threw himself. His vision blackened before he even hit the ground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is just the prologue, and I swear the subsequent chapters will be much longer. This is my baby, and, quite honestly, it's run away with me. Just as a heads-up, canon alliance means very little in the alternate universe. I've also taken quite a few liberties, but as these are for plot purposes, I have no qualms about such.


	2. A Bit of a Different Reality

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ron introduces himself to people who should already know him. Professor McGonagall looks at a map. Hermione and Ginny talk about dragons. Percy gets impatient.

When Ron woke, it was to sunlight streaming in through the windows of the Hospital Wing of Hogwarts. He groaned, feeling pain in places of his body that he would never have imagined would have hurt. It took him longer than he cared to admit to realize that the room surrounding him was unscathed and that the beds up and down each side were unoccupied, a strange sight for a place that was in the middle of a battle.  

“Oh, good, you’re awake.”  

He turned his head to see Madam Pomfrey fussing over him. The next few minutes were a bit hectic as the matron forced multiple potions down his throat. She waved her wand above him, checked his bandages, and muttered curiously about the scars on his shoulder which he had received when he had been splinched in the Forest of Dean.  

“Tell me, dear, what is the last thing you remember?”  

He searched his mind, remembering the fighting and the destruction, the sounds of death and defeat. But the last thing he recalled… “The curse,” but it came out so scratchy that the matron blinked at him strangely, silently asking him to repeat himself. He cleared his throat. What he would not give for a nice drink of water. “I was hit with a curse.”  

“There is evidence to support that,” she confirmed, nodding her head as she tapped her wand against the scars on his shoulder.  

Realization finally dawning upon him, he sat up suddenly. “Where is everyone? Did we win? Is he dead?”  

"Calm down, child. Is who dead?” she commanded, placing her hand on his shoulder to gently push him back to the bed.  

“Lord Vol—wait. How long have I been unconscious?” He lowered his eyebrows as glanced up and down the hospital wing. He wondered how a place could look so familiar yet so strange at the same time.  

“Just a few hours.”  

“That’s impossible! This place should be in ruins.”  

“You have a wild imagination, dear. Maybe I gave you one too many potions…”  

Madam Pomfrey stepped away from Ron to the table that contained vials of potions, some of which she had already administered. She muttered to herself, and he neither understood nor cared what she said. He stared up at the ceiling, confused about how it was intact. He was certain he had glimpsed the hospital wing a couple of hours ago to find that it was in shambles. That was why all of the dead and injured had been herded into the Great Hall.  

The doors to the hospital wing burst open and in marched Minerva McGonagall, who wore her customary emerald green robes. She looked put-together, not bloodied and dusty as Ron remembered her being just a few hours earlier. Her stern gaze flitted to him before settling upon the nurse. “You summoned me, Poppy?”  

“Ah, Minerva, I did. The man is awake.”  

Turning her full attention upon him, Professor McGonagall asked, “How are you feeling?”  

“What is going on?” he asked instead. “Where’s Voldemort? Why isn’t anyone fighting? Why isn’t this place a pile of rocks?”  

“Slow down,” she ordered, voice leaning toward sharp. “I do not know where you have gotten your twisted ideas, young man, but I can assure you that Voldemort’s whereabouts are tightly monitored by the Minister for Magic himself. As for why no one is fighting, I have strict rules concerning fighting in my school.”  

Stunned momentarily to silence, he stared at Professor McGonagall in stupor. He wondered why she was acting as though she knew nothing of the battle or of fighting off Lord Voldemort with her own wand. But there was something stranger which caught his attention. “Your school?”  

“Yes,  _my_  school. What is your name, young man?”  

He regarded her bewilderedly, eyes widened in alarm. She might as well have told him to paint Snape’s toe nails with hot pink muggle nail polish, because that was just as plausible as his own head of house asking for identity. It seemed impossible that she did not know the name of the student who had been Harry Potter’s best friend, a prefect, and a keeper for the Gryffindor quidditch team. Then, unable to restrain himself, he bellowed out a laugh at the oddity of it all and grabbed his side when it started to hurt, yet he chuckled harder.  

“There is nothing humorous about this, young man."  

Trying to quell his laughter, he managed to gasp, “I’m sorry, Professor, but you’re off your rocker. You just asked for my name!”  

“I can assure you that I have no knowledge of who you are—though I am beginning to have my suspicions.”  

Hermione had once stumbled upon a book in the Restricted Section of the library that discussed alternate universes. It had been during their fourth year when they were helping Harry with the Triwizard Tournament. She had explained a bit of the theories behind the ideas, but Ron had only listened as an excuse to stop reading the book that had been lying on the table in front of him. He suddenly wished he had listened closer, because it was as though he had stepped—or rather been cursed—into a parallel universe. It was the first explanation that sprang to his mind which would explain Professor McGonagall's odd behavior toward him.  

“That’s impossible, Minerva,” interrupted Madam Pomfrey staring at Ron in horror. She slowly looked up at the professor. “You know as well as I that the Weasleys only had six children.”  

“You’re forgetting, Poppy, of the rumors seventeen years ago that the matriarch was pregnant yet no baby came forth. Narcissa said she held the little boy herself as the mother wailed for a son that would not draw a breath,” responded Professor McGonagall. She paused then turned to Ron, eyebrows raised. “Tell me who you are.”  

Feeling confused, and a little worried, he immediately said, without any pretenses, “Ron Weasley.”  

Madam Pomfrey covered her mouth with her hand to hide the gasp of horror which escaped her lips. She turned to the headmistress standing next to her. Professor McGonagall’s expression remained unchanged, though Ron spied a bit of alarm twinkling in her eyes. Glancing between the pair, he felt anger spike within him.  

“Look, I don’t know what’s going on or why the bloody hell you two are looking at me as if I am Voldemort’s second-in-command. All I know is that there was a battle here at Hogwarts. I jumped in front of a stupid curse, woke up in this bed, and have been treated like a bloody stranger to people who know me! I am a member of the Gryffindor House! I played keeper, was best friends with Harry Potter, and was given Dumbledore’s delluminator in his will! Now you tell me how you don’t have a bloody clue who I am?!”  

The silence following his outburst was almost deafening. Tension hung heavily in the air between them as the witches stared at him, stuck in a stupor. He huffed impatiently and sat up straighter in the bed.  

“There are a few things you should know, Mister… Weasley,” Professor McGonagall finally said. “First is that Albus Dumbledore is very much alive; therefore, there is no reason that... his will should have been executed. Second is that every Weasley, for as long as anyone has ever known, has been sorted into the Slytherin House. The third thing is… that the Weasley family is first and foremost known for its affinity to the Dark Arts.”  

“You’re wrong,” stated Ron, voice faint with disbelief, though the possibility of an alternate universe seemed more plausible by the passing second, especially when compared against the conviction which saturated Professor McGonagall's expression. Yet his jaw still slackened as he considered what she had told him. It could not be true. The Weasleys were one of the pureblood families that  _fought_  against the Dark Arts. They were not the Malfoys or the Lestranges who prided themselves with the darker side of magic.  

“Ah, but I am not. Molly and Arthur Weasley were infamous Slytherins of their age, and their children followed in their parents’ footsteps,” she said, hesitating for a moment. “As for the Dark Lord’s second-in-command, there are those who believe that spot belongs to Arthur and Molly Weasley.”  

He shook his head in horror, eyes widened in disbelief. The more he was told, the harder it was to wrap his mind around the fact that Professor McGonagall considered her words to be true.  

“That's why you were never born,” Madam Pomfrey added after a quick glance in the headmistress' direction. “Arthur Weasley was given the task of murdering Alice and Frank Longbottom on a cold February evening, but he was foiled, some say, by Lucius Malfoy. When he failed, the Dark Lord allegedly took his anger out on Arthur’s family, killing you before you were given the chance to be born.”  

Ron sat back on the bed, his mind reeling. Just this morning he had a family—a complete  _Gryffindor_  family that fought against Lord Voldemort—but now he was being told that everything he knew was incorrect. The Weasleys were a dark family, probably as dark as the Lestranges or the Malfoys against whom Ron had fought at the Battle of Hogwarts.  

“There has to be some mistake.”  

“I agree,” Professor McGonagall said. “I’ll owl Albus immediately. He may be the Minister for Magic, but he always has time for the affairs of Hogwarts—especially when an allegedly dead son of the Weasleys is mysteriously alive.”  

Madam Pomfrey, sensing the end of the conversation, gathered up her potions and returned to her office with strict instructions that Ron was not to leave the bed he that he occupied. That was a command he figured he would obey; he was not sure where he would go anyhow.  

“Professor? Do you mind answering a couple of questions? You say my family is evil, that they are followers of Voldemort—”  

“All except Percy,” she interrupted him, and he had to grin at that. Perfect Percy had his head on his shoulders in this place. Good for him. That comforted Ron just a bit.  

“What about Harry Potter? Is he alive? His parents?”  

Gazing curiously at him, she responded, “Mister Potter is very much alive. He’s about your age, I suppose, and sorted into Gryffindor like his parents before him. They teach here, actually.”  

Storing that information away but choosing to allow it to simmer, Ron nodded slowly. “And Hermione Granger?”  

“The muggle-born Slytherin? Smart enough girl, though she has a rather dangerous affinity for blue flames. I believe she runs in the same crowd as your… siblings. Why the interest in these two individuals, Mister Weasley?”  

He stared up at the ceiling, choosing not to respond to the question. It was so much to consider—his entire family were Slytherins as was Hermione, and Harry’s parents were alive. Any doubt Ron had about this parallel universe instantly vanished.  

“There’s a slight chance, Professor, that I’m not where I’m supposed to be.”  

"I believe I agree with you, Mister… Weasley.”  

He noticed how she hesitated on his surname, and he inwardly winced. He could only imagine how dark his family actually was. He wondered how many more things were different in this world, but more importantly, his thoughts strayed to the world he had just left behind. He wondered if Harry had defeated Voldemort yet and if anyone had noticed his disappearance.  

“I shall owl Albus immediately,” said Professor McGonagall. Ron jumped, forgetting for a moment of the witch’s presence. “I advise you not to wander the halls of Hogwarts until we know more of this situation.”  

Sweeping her stern gaze over him once more, she turned on her heel and exited the hospital wing. The heavy door swung shut behind her. He was left to his own thoughts. He turned over on his side to stare out the window. Outside, the sun shined brightly against a clear blue sky.  

  

* * * * *

 

Professor McGonagall sat behind her oak desk, waiting for her guests to arrive. A weathered piece of borrowed parchment lay in front of her. It was the Marauder’s Map. She had acquired it from Professor James Potter only a few days prior when the wards of Hogwarts had been breached. That had been the closest Arthur Weasley had ever come to leading a direct attack on the school itself. Even with help from the inside, he had been foiled by the Order’s spy, Lucius Malfoy. Predictably, Professor McGonagall’s attention to the school’s safety became increasingly more apparent.  

A faint knock at her door announced the arrival she was expecting. She called out, inviting whomever into her office. Just like old times, the Marauders stepped into the office as a unit, followed by a redhead. For a moment, Professor McGonagall was struck by a bit of nostalgia, though twenty odd years ago, she had beckoned the mischievous Gryffindors into a different office as deputy headmistress under Albus Dumbledore. A lot had changed over the years. The ongoing war against Lord Voldemort had aged the once-carefree Hogwarts students into hardened warriors.  

“You summoned us, Headmistress?” asked Remus Lupin, professor of Defense Against the Dark Arts. The werewolf’s robes were slightly disheveled, an indicator of his lesson on boggarts for his third years. Professor McGonagall wondered if he had managed to keep his worst fear—those of his most cherished friends lying bloodied and dead—from terrifying his students this year or if the slab of chocolate was enough to calm their nerves as they left the classroom.  

The headmistress waved her wand, creating enough chairs for all those she had summoned. She gestured for them to sit down. They left two seats empty for the wizards who had yet to arrive. They would be there shortly, she knew.  

“This isn’t about Harry, is it? I told him not to fly that silly broom around the common room,” said Lily Evans Potter, professor of Charms. It was a fair enough assumption. Harry was not a trouble maker, but he had a certain disregard for rules—a trait that he had picked up as a second-generation Marauder. Lily was just thankful he had not also inherited her redheaded fury.  

“No, it’s not about Harry. There is a certain peculiarity that I wished to discuss, but I was hoping Albus and Severus would arrive quickly. It seems we have a… rather odd set of circumstances.”  

“What do you mean?” questioned James Potter, Auror and temporary assistant professor of Transfiguration. His dark hair stuck up in every direction, spilling over his wire-rimmed glasses. He was one of the most feared Aurors in the entire department, trained by head Auror Alastor Moody himself, but he was currently on leave from the frontline. Last May, he had fallen capture to the Death Eaters and had been tortured by the terrifying curse breaker Bill Weasley for information regarding the Order. He had never broken, but it had taken five weeks before the Aurors managed to rescue him. Mad-Eye Moody had subsequently ordered him to take a year off to recuperate.  

But James was not one to sit on the sidelines and do absolutely nothing so Professor McGonagall offered him a temporary position as the Transfiguration professor. The position had originally belonged to her protégé Octavia Longbottom, niece of Augusta Longbottom, but she was on an assignment for the Order to reach out to Beauxbatons for allies. In the meantime, James was the perfect man for the job, especially given his credentials as one of the youngest wizards to successfully become an animagus; an honor also rested with two of the other Marauders.  

“You say this map shows everything there is to see within Hogwarts?”  

“Everything plottable. We never, uh, quite worked out how to trace the Room of Requirements, but, remember, we added the Chamber a few years ago,” answered Sirius Black. He whipped his black hair over his shoulder in a canine-like gesture. Following Hogwarts, he had spent a few years playing professional quidditch as a beater for Puddlemere United until he traded his broom for a position under Mad-Eye Moody. As equally fearsome of an Auror as James, he had no official post at Hogwarts. He still carried on with his duties under Mad-Eye and was only visiting his friends at Hogwarts. Professor McGonagall doubted she would ever see the day he stepped into a classroom to instruct young minds. He was much more hands-on and impulsive than required for a professor.  

Beside him sat Peter Pettigrew. Though officially the senior editor of the  _Daily Prophet_ , he was one of the Order’s most valuable spies. He had managed to infiltrate far into Voldemort’s inner circle, a feat that only two others could say that had achieved as well. Professor McGonagall had trouble seeing Peter as anything more than a boy who hero-worshipped James and Sirius, but he had grown up to be a rather courageous man himself. He had the silent courage unlike the boisterous type displayed by his friends. It had been he and Sirius who had hatched the plan to mislead Voldemort back in 1981 which had undoubtedly saved James, Lily, and Harry's lives. Many in the Order owed their lives to Peter Pettigrew.  

“And it does not lie?”  

James shook his head, saying, “With all due respect, Minerva, I doubt that you called us in here to merely discuss the Map. Has something gone wrong?”’  

The fireplace glowed bright green, interrupting the conversation. A second later, the Minister for Magic Albus Dumbledore stepped out of the flames. He was closely followed by Severus Snape, Order spy and professor of Potions. The men took the empty seats without prompt, briefly greeting the others.  

“Tell me, Albus, what do you know about alternate universes?”  

The aged wizard thought for a moment. He looked at home in this office, though he was once on the other side of the oak desk. Eight years ago, following the death of Millicent Bagnold at the hands of Bellatrix Lestrange, he had been offered the position of Minister for Magic like many times before. This time he had taken it, leaving Hogwarts in the capable hands of Minerva McGonagall.  

“There are many universes out there, according to the great scholars. I regret that I am no more familiar with them than you, Minerva. May I ask why you are curious?”  

“Strange arrival this morning. A young man who claims to be the long-dead son of Arthur and Molly Weasley is currently in my hospital wing, and he was under the impression that I knew him quite well.”  

Sitting stoically, Professor Severus Snape slowly glanced between Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall. He had served as a spy for the Order as a result of an incident which occurred just months after his Hogwarts graduation nearly twenty years ago. Since then, he had perfected the ability to read his surroundings. He spotted the tattered map lying on the oak desk and recognized it as the product of his adolescent enemies. A slight twist of a smile ghosted across his lips; twenty years ago, he would have never believed that he would one day fight on the same side as James Potter.  

“Molly and Arthur Weasley have only six children; they’re all living,” said Peter. “Unless you’re speaking of…”  

“I am, Peter,” said Professor McGonagall. She held the Map out for him to examine. Peter blinked at the tiny name scrawled across the hospital wing. He knew this map well; he had been one of the four creators and knew it that the name  _Ronald_ _Weasley_ was not an error. “The boy said something about a battle that apparently took place on Hogwarts grounds. He was surprised that the hospital wing was still intact.”  

“The Dark Lord has not yet obtained entry to Hogwarts,” said Snape. “Are you certain this boy was not mistaken?”  

“If he is from a different universe as Professor McGonagall suspects, then it is entirely possible he can accurately believe that a battle took place here at Hogwarts,” said Remus. “Our main concern is what impact this young man will have on  _our_ universe. It is something into which we need to look. In the mean time, there is the issue of what to do with him. I can't imagine anyone sitting idly by, hidden in the hospital wing.”  

“Perhaps it would be smartest to assimilate the young man into life here,” suggested Lily. She glanced between Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall. “Give him a new identity, maybe, to keep attention off him.”  

“The Dark Lord has eyes everywhere. I imagine he is already aware of the strange presence, if not the boy's exact identity,” said Snape. “However, I do not believe it would hurt to keep him at the castle, at least for a week or two. By then, we may know more, but he'll be protected nonetheless.”  

Professor McGonagall stared at the tiny, unmoving dot on the magical map and wondered what the repercussions of Ron Weasley's arrival were. An uneasy feeling settled in the pit of her stomach. She could not deny that Snape made a valid argument. “Very well. I shall speak to young Mister Weasley first thing in the morning.”  

“I have some books that discuss theories on alternate universes that I can peruse tonight,” offered Remus. “The five of us might as well make an evening of it—I know how much Padfoot enjoys wading through information.”  

Grumbling, Sirius glared at Remus. A smile tugged at the corners of Professor McGonagall's lips as she recalled the brilliant group of Gryffindors from years past. Sirius, and James for that matter, preferred to throw spells first and research later. It was only thanks to Remus' honed patience that the two men finally learned to take a step back to examine the circumstances before running into situations with their wands raised. The pair were excellent Aurors, but Professor McGonagall doubted that rested on much theoretical research.  

“I shall pay a visit to the Burrow this evening,” said Snape as Dumbledore's expectant gaze fell upon him. “If Wormtail is unable to attend to the Dark Lord than I shall. With any luck, the Dark Lord is unconcerned with this anomaly. But if he is not, it is in our best interests to be aware of any planned attacks. I don't think we want a repeat of Arthur Weasley's failed raids—I highly doubt the wards will stand up to another assault of that standard.”  

Dumbledore nodded, agreeing. The ever-constant twinkle in his eye dimmed a bit as the attack replayed through his mind. He would need to strengthen the wards again before he left Hogwarts. Its natural defenses were well maintained by Professor McGonagall, but nobody wanted to take any chances of a successful assault against the school. The stronger the wards, the better.  

“So it's settled then,” said Professor McGonagall, her eyes sweeping across the group sitting in front of her. There was an air of determination about the entirety of the gathering. Everyone knew what was expected of them, both voiced and assumed. Quietly, the assembly disbanded.  

 

* * * * *

 

The Slytherin common room was rowdy for a school night. Hermione Granger sat curled up with her Charms homework in a squishy armchair next to her favorite view of the lake. The greenish hue cast over the room was comforting. Seven years at Hogwarts, and she was still enamored with the beauty of the Slytherin dungeon.  

“Got an owl earlier,” said Ginny Weasley. She had changed out of her school robes and was instead wearing a soft Slytherin Quidditch t-shirt and a pair of trousers. Her flaming red hair was tied back into a hair tie, though the elastic had not held up against the wind from quidditch practice. Slytherin's final quidditch match, against Hufflepuff, was not for another few weeks. Ginny, the captain, was pushing the team with all her fury to win the Cup. They were neck-to-neck with Gryffindor; a victory against Hufflepuff and then Gryffindor's subsequent loss against Ravenclaw would result in the first Quidditch Cup win for Slytherin in five years. But Ginny was by no means going to rely on a Gryffindor defeat; Harry Potter was a brilliant captain with a formidable team, even a Slytherin could admit such.  

Hermione folded the corner of her book and put it away, giving her closest friend her undivided attention. Partly, it was out of respect, for the Weasleys were among the most affluent families in the Wizarding world and had welcomed a muggleborn into their family with such resolution that the Dark Lord himself cared not for the talented witch's blood status, though she would never delude herself into thinking that he would not one day change his mind without warning.  

Mostly, Hermione was intrigued by what she may have to say. Ginny hardly ever received post from her family. There was no need to use owls after the twins had perfected the mirror communication; the ancient Weasley mirrors served as a valuable and secure link between her brothers and herself. Also, the Ministry particularly targeted any owls flying from or to a Weasley. Sending anything by post was more dangerous than it was worth, most of the time.  

“It was from Charlie,” she added. “The tiny dragons hare hatching, though there's an unexpected snag with one of the eggs. Thinks he might have to get a team to see what the fuss is all about.”  

To any outsider, Ginny really was discussing dragons, which would not be surprising given her second eldest brother's occupation; however, Hermione had practically been raised alongside the Weasleys. Abandoned by her parents at a young age, she had taken refuge in the Weasleys home. She knew, as well as any blood child of Arthur and Molly, coded words Ginny did not dare let fall so carelessly from her mouth—the Order of the Phoenix was on the move, attention centering on something the Dark Lord knew little about.  

“Did he say what he needed the team for? To put the creature down or...?”  

“Just to poke around,” responded Ginny easily enough. “He said the dragon mother has called her young together. That never bodes well for a dragon chaser, or so Charlie believes.”  

Theodore Nott sat next Ginny on the green sofa, crossing his left ankle above his right knee. The greenish hue of the common room emphasized the green speckles in Nott's hazel eyes as he glanced between the two girls, a grin on his face. He was not privy to the Weasley code, but the Notts were old family friends with the Weasleys. He could gather the nature of their hushed conversation.  

“Anything I need to know?” He was not pushy, a trait that made many underestimate him. It had been he who had patiently awaited the right time to unveil the Vanishing Cabinet after he had spent an entire term fixing it back up. The Cabinet was supposed to help Arthur Weasley's raid of Hogwarts, but Draco Malfoy shattered the Cabinet during a duel only moments before the raid and inadvertently thwarted the Dark Lord's plan to take Hogwarts.  

“Nothing that can't wait. Where's Blaise, anyhow? I thought the two of you were joined at the hip,” said Ginny, glancing around the common room but not spotting the boy in question. She saw Daphne Greengrass instead, who slowed to a stop beside Nott.  

“Did I hear you ask about Blaise? I think I saw him and Pansy sneak into the broom closet near the staircase,” she answered. Next to her, Nott scowled. “I'll put a freezing charm on your face, you know. It's not as if Blaise is completely ditching you like he did when he dated Romilda what's-her-face Vane last year. Pansy's one of your best friends, and if Blaise wants to snog her, shouldn't he?”  

Nott grumbled, folding his arms across his chest and looking pointedly away from Daphne. She merely rolled her eyes at him. Tucking a strand of her curly black hair behind her ear, she dropped into the other armchair next to Hermione. She kicked off her shoes and propped her feet on the corner of the sofa, poking Nott teasingly with her toes. He shoved her feet away from him.  

Ginny caught Hermione's attention and subtly inclined her head toward the dormitories while Daphne continued to tease Nott. Hermione faked a yawn, making a show of grabbing her books. “I'm knackered. I think I'm going to go on to bed. See you all at breakfast.”  

Neither Daphne nor Nott paid any attention to her, too caught up in annoying one another, as she walked toward the girls' dormitory. She heard Ginny follow her, but she did not look back until she arrived at the seventh year dorm. She drew her wand from her trousers and a muttered a revealing spell. The room was entirely empty. She hurried Ginny inside then locked the door behind them. Placing a silencing spell on the room, she walked over to her bed and sat down at the head of it. Ginny, sitting cross-legged at the foot, faced her.  

“Do you have the mirror?” asked Ginny even as Hermione muttered the summoning spell. A silver mirror flew through the air, landing on the bed between them with a soft thump. She reached for it and held it up to see her own reflection. “The Fair Red Queen of Snakes to the Twins of Peace and Earth from the Outskirts of the Otters.”  

For a beat, the mirror remained unchanged then instantly a pair of identical redheaded twins stared back at Ginny from the enchanted surface. The spoke simultaneously, asking “You rang?” as an explosion sounded behind them. The one on the left, undoubtedly Fred, threw a casual laugh over his shoulder. Ginny assumed the explosion had been planned, especially as she recognized the wooden cabinets of their Diagon Alley shop. Hermione scooted over on the bed to appear next to her.  

“I got Charlie's letter.”  

The twins blinked, their eyes shifting from Ginny to Hermione. Behind them, a muffled shout of surprise preceded a blast of smoke that hung thick in the air. George waved his wand to clear out the smoke. Lee Jordan half-heartedly poked a melted cauldron with his wand, sighing. The twins turned back to the mirror.  

“The Dark Lord is interested in a patient who is currently in the hospital wing there at Hogwarts,” said George.  

“Naturally, we would be dispatched to check it out, but with Auror Potter lurking about, none of the passageways are secure enough to sneak in and back out,” added Fred. “So it rests upon your shoulders to discover the identity of this person and report to the Dark Lord promptly.”  

“Oh, and Mum and Dad send along their love,” said George as an afterthought. He wrinkled his nose, tossing a few profane words over his shoulder at Lee. “We'd like to stay and chat, but we're in the middle of... well, that's not yet important.”  

“It looks like you're trying to blow up your shop,” said Hermione. “Did you mix Valerian root with shrivelfig? Because that would explain the smoke.”  

As George stepped away to deal with the aftermath of the explosion, Fred stared at the mirror, shaking his head slowly in awe. “I swear, Hermione. The moment you graduate, you're working with us. I don't care how much Rookwood wants you for the Department of Mysteries mess. We need you more.”  

Hermione smiled, a blush tickling her cheeks. In just a few short weeks, she would have to make a decision regarding how to best serve the Dark Lord. While a position in the Department of Mysteries would provide challenges that Hermione knew she could overcome, it would be more enjoyable to assist the Weasley twins and Lee Jordan in the shop. They created new spells, devices, and techniques to aid the Death Eaters in the war between the Dark Lord and the Order of the Phoenix. Hermione would shine in such an atmosphere.  

The connection ended as George set down the mirror, and Hermione was left to stare at Ginny's and her reflections. The Dark Lord had an assignment for them. No matter how much the Weasley twins would love to investigate Hogwarts, they were no longer students. Professor McGonagall would never allow them entrance into her school. With the added security of the carefully chosen professors—including Lily Evans Potter, James Potter, and Remus Lupin—the secret passageways into Hogwarts were not so secret.  

“It'd be nice if they would have sent some Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder,” said Ginny.  

“It's the hospital wing, isn't it? Aren't we allowed access to it?” challenged Hermione, an idea forming in her head. Yes, she thought she would definitely enjoy working with the Weasley twins. Maybe that would be the choice she made upon Hogwarts graduation. They needed another brain to concoct whatever whim the Dark Lord had, and she was good at seeing what needed to be done.  

 

* * * * *

 

“They'll slaughter you, Percy,” warned Oliver Wood. It was a warm night in early May, and Oliver was crouched behind an abandoned warehouse overlooking the expansive grounds that had belonged to the Weasley family for centuries. He had his treasured broom gripped in one hand, his wand clutched in the other. The initial fly around of the wards showed no sign of weakness, though neither wizard had expected as much. “Keep to the shadows, would you?”  

Percy rolled his eyes at him in response, a gesture that was barely visible by the soft moonlight. He had grown up here—lived here until he could not stand his family’s fascination with the dark arts any longer—but now he was nothing more than an unwelcomed visitor to the grounds, even with Weasley blood pumping through his veins. At the strike of midnight on his seventeenth birthday, he had fled the pureblooded prison that his childhood home had become. He had sought refuge from Oliver’s family and never looked back—the first Weasley in generations to abandon the family.  

“Look, the team is relying on our information to carry out the mission, and we’re not learning anything I don’t already know. The broom shed down there? That’s an entrance to the cellars where they keep the prisoners and questionable dark artifacts they prefer to hide from the Ministry,” rambled Percy. “See, Oliver? I know all of this already. We’re not helping the Order by hiding on the outskirts of the property.”  

Oliver sighed, flicking his wand at his broomstick to shrink it. He pocketed the tiny broom and hoped he would not need to fly away quickly. He glanced around the expansive grounds before them. The house stood tall against the horizon and was undoubtedly held up by magic, seemingly unprotected in such an overt location. He knew better than to think Voldemort would bother with a Fidelius charm, especially since the wards of the Burrow were enough to deter anyone from wandering onto the grounds without a set purpose.  

The Weasley charm was unlike what was expected of old pureblood families. There were few statues of great Slytherins adorning the home, as compared to the houses which belonged to the Lestranges or the Dolohovs. Instead, the décor was falsely welcoming and homey. It was only the presence of Voldemort and his followers that gave the house an eerie air. But there were remnants of a time when the Burrow had been a shrine for the dark arts, Slytherin, and superiority. Oliver assumed the drastic disappearance of the shrine-like qualities coincided with the death of Percy’s youngest brother who did not live past his birth on the first day of March 1980.  

The two wizards left the shadowed protection of the warehouse, strolling carefully along the outer boundary of the wards to the Weasley farmhouse. There was little activity out of the norm. A few Death Eaters patrolled the exterior of the house, a sign that Voldemort was currently inside. Oliver grumbled at their luck: attacking the Burrow now would be a suicide mission that the Order could not afford. Percy seemed to reach the same conclusion, shaking his head as he counted the patrolling Death Eaters.  

“Frank and Alice Longbottom are rotting away in there, subject to Godric knows what torture at the hands of those evil bastards, and we’re in no position to attack,” Percy summarized, his voice darkening with each successive word. “We don’t have it in us to launch a full-on attack…”  

There was something about how Percy’s voice floated off that made the hairs on the back of Oliver’s neck stand on end. He swallowed against an anxious lump in the back of his throat, stating, “Don’t even suggest it, Perce.”  

Percy glanced wearily at him. “If we can’t match them brute force for brute force, at least on their territory, we may be able to sneak in undetected.”  

“Undetected?!” repeated Oliver, barking out a laugh that was all too loud for their current predicament. Percy glared at him. “I can name on one hand the things that go undetected by Voldemort, and even those things are questionable. You can’t seriously suggest that Voldemort won’t know the moment we step foot on their land.”  

Percy huffed, realizing the truth of the argument. He hated this. Hated the entire war. Hated having to turn his back on his family. Hated making that decision without a single moment of hesitation. In a different world, he liked to imagine that the Weasleys were good and that they fought against the evils of which they promoted in this one. But he knew better than to waste his life wishing for fantasies to be reality.  

“It was just a thought. Nothing else is working,” he muttered softly.  

Slapping him on the back, Oliver understood his friend’s impatience. Frank and Alice Longbottom had been assigned to protect Hogsmeade during the raid on Hogwarts. They were two of the Order’s best fighters—Aurors on the same team as James Potter and Sirius Black—but the overwhelming number of Death Eaters had gotten the best of them. The official report to the Order had identified Bellatrix, the Lestrange brothers Rodolphus and Rabastan, and Barty Crouch, Jr. as the ones responsible—a report verified by Order spies within the ranks of Voldemort’s inner circle. Their imprisonment was nearing the one-week mark, and none of the Order wanted a repeat of the James Potter incident.  

“Well, well, well—what do we have here?”  

Oliver spun around toward the voice, placing himself between the Death Eater and Percy. It was Jugson, one of the lower ranks of Voldemort’s followers. His wand was pointed straight at Oliver’s heart, a triumphant grin written across his face. Oliver’s heart pounded in his chest as he quickly assessed the situation. He knew it had been an ignorant idea for Percy to accompany him on this mission; he should have agreed when Benjy Fenwick volunteered to go in his place. After all, Percy Weasley was the last person that the Order could afford to lose to the Weasley family—the estranged son would doubtfully make it to the holding cells before being tortured to death by his vengeful siblings.  

There was only one way out of this, Oliver realized with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. He pointed his wand at Jugson and cried, “Stupefy!” The red jet of light slammed into Jugson’s chest, sending the Death Eater sprawling backward. Oliver followed up with a quick, “Obliviate,” to cover their tracks. He turned back toward Percy, fishing in his pocket of his Order-issued robes for the portkey Mad-Eye Moody had shoved at him only moments before he had embarked on the scouting mission. He clasped the old broken pocket watch serving as the portkey.  

A jet of green light soared over his left shoulder. Pops of Apparition filled the air as half of a dozen or so Death Eaters appeared. Oliver flashed back to the stories of the Longbottoms’ and James Potters’ captures. He knew the odds. He knew what was at stake.  

“Forgive me,” Oliver said, not bothering to waste time to add  _for sacrificing myself_  because Percy’s confusion aided his plan. He activated the tiny portkey. Offering his best friend one last sad smile, he threw the portkey at Percy and watched as his fumbling fingers grazed the pocket watch to send him swirling away.  

Oliver turned back to the Death Eaters, aware that he was on his own. Percy was safe. The Order would get news, and someone—he imagined maybe Remus Lupin—would physically restrain Percy from running head first into a rescue mission that would kill him. Squaring his jaw, he raised his wand to fight. Half a dozen to one, he knew he was doomed. But Oliver Wood had never been one to back down from a challenge.


	3. Prized Curse Breaker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Remus and Sirius make a dive. Harry casts a spell. Oliver gets acquainted with a chair. Dumbledore learns something new.

It was late in the night at a hidden townhouse in London. In the basement kitchen, five friends sat gathered around a large table that was piled high with books, parchment, and maps. Five mugs of partially drank butterbeer set amongst the chaos. Sirius Black flipped through the pages of an old book without comprehending the tiny print scrawled on the page. He sighed audibly, impatient to find the answer for which they all searched.

It had been hours since their meeting with Professor McGonagall. Though everyone had to work early in the morning, nobody voiced any intent to end their research. They had retrieved the books from Remus’ office then flooed to Grimmauld Place, the ancestral home of the Blacks which Sirius currently shared with his younger brother Regulus. It also served as one of the headquarters for the Order. Many of the spare bedrooms served to lodge miscellaneous members when needed. 

“Most of this information hasn’t been updated in almost a hundred years,” moaned Peter. He pushed the book away from him, rapidly blinking his eyes to stop them from crossing. He was exhausted, as were his companions. While he made his living on the written word, research had never been his favorite task. He had hated it even at Hogwarts when he, James, and Sirius worked diligently to become Animagi. 

James, propping his chin on his fist, yawned. He turned another page in a large book that took up the end of the long table. “That’s because the Ministry had enough trouble after Eloise Mintumble that they tightly regulate any travel among time, universes, or dimensions. Frankly, Moony, I’m surprised you even managed to get your hand on half of these books.” 

“Old Bathilda Bagshot gave me a trunk full of books last time I had to lay low at her house. I reckon she took a shining to me, compared my thirst for knowledge to that of Dumbledore’s. Now, I don’t quite believe that claim, but, I have to admit, these books actually came in handy. Pass me that one on top, would you, Lily?” 

Lily marked her place in her own reading with her pointer finger before grabbing the topmost book from the stack next to her. A crash sounded upstairs. She froze, her eyes meeting Peter’s across from her. Other than Kreacher, who kept quietly to himself most evenings, they were the only ones in the house. James drew his wand, a gesture that was mimicked by the others in the kitchen. They fled up the stairs, wands raised at the intruder. 

“OLIVER! YOU BLOODY BASTARD! HOW  _DARE_  YOU SACRIFICE YOUR BLOODY SELF!” howled Percy Weasley at the ceiling as if the wizard in question was just a floor above them. A golden pocket watch fell to the wooden floor with a crack. Still angry, though no longer yelling, he noticed the Marauders and Lily standing on the landing down to the kitchen. His face crumbled. “They’ve got him.” he said in a cracked, almost lifeless, voice. “He threw the damned portkey at me and stayed behind.” 

The other five gasped collectively in horror. James shuddered, having experienced firsthand the atrocities to which Oliver was more than likely being subjected. Oliver was a hero. Few wizards would voluntarily strand themselves at the gates of the Burrow, even in the Order. James’ own capture had occurred near Diagon Alley as the Order attempted to sabotage the stronghold of Voldemort’s new creations: Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes. His imprisonment at the Burrow had only occurred because of who he was—the great dark wizard catcher and one of Albus Dumbledore’s right hand men. If he had been a lower member of the Order, he would have been detained at the more logical location of the Lestrange Manor. 

“I have to go back,” concluded Percy, raising his wand to Apparate even though the wards were specifically designed against allowing such a thing.

“No!” bellowed Remus and Sirius simultaneously, diving at him. The tackled him to the ground and held him down. Remus wrenched the wand from the wizard’s hand and tossed it to James. Percy struggled against the two Marauders. He was no physical match for the older wizards, but his determination to get loose proved a challenge to them.

“He got you away. Don’t you dare make his sacrifice in vain,” growled Sirius. “It was either you or him, Percy. He saved your life.” 

“And lost his!” 

“He’s not dead yet,” said Remus, voice softer than Sirius’. Percy stopped struggling to get away, but neither wizard loosened their hold. They knew his determination to Apparate back to the Burrow had not diminished. “Voldemort’s smarter than that. Everybody knows that Oliver will draw you out—you are the only Weasley who managed to wiggle free from his grasp. He’s more valuable to Voldemort alive than he is dead so they'll keep him that way like they did James and like they are the Longbottoms.” 

Percy winced, turning his face away from Sirius and Remus to stare up the hallway leading away from the kitchen. He knew battle theory as well as anybody, having studied nothing but warfare tactics during his first few months with the Order. That knowledge did not help lessen the guilt which racked his body. It had been he who insisted to get a closer look. Oliver wanted to play it safe, but Percy was tired of leaving his comrades to die in Voldemort’s prisons.

“Firecall Dumbledore,” commanded Remus, looking over his shoulder at James. “We need to get eyes at the Burrow as quickly as possible.” He turned back to Percy as James scurried down the stairs to the kitchen which had a direct connection to Dumbledore’s home in Godric’s Hollow. “Tell us everything.” 

Through a lifeless voice, Percy began to recount the scouting mission. Neither Remus nor Sirius released their grip on him throughout the entire story. Peter hovered above them. Lily disappeared down the stairs, reappearing a few moments later with a vial of purple potion. As he finished his story, his desire to blaze into the Burrow and rescue Oliver returned with full force. Sirius and Remus struggled to restrain him as Lily stepped forward and poured the dreamless sleeping potion down his throat. He stopped struggling instantly, eyes drooping closed. She winced as she stood back up. 

“Poor lad,” she murmured. She whipped her wand out and pointed it at him. Sirius and Remus let go as Percy's sleeping form floated above the floor. Lily escorted him up the stairs to the bedroom in which he frequently slept. She pulled back the duvet before laying him down and covering him up. Removing his glasses, she pushed his fringe out of eyes. She placed a soft kiss on his forehead, feeling as motherly toward him as she did any of Harry’s friends. Percy had grown up too quickly in the awful world from which he had barely managed to escape.

When Lily returned to the kitchen, Minister for Magic Albus Dumbledore sat at the head of the table surrounded by the Marauders. Lily sat down in the empty space by James. She reached across the stack of papers to retrieve her butterbeer, noting Peter’s absence. She met Remus’ gaze, spotting the bruise forming around his right eye, and he silently confirmed her suspicions: Peter had been sent to spy at the Burrow for the Order. 

"Any new information on the boy in the hospital wing, Albus?” asked James. Lily was thankful that the conversation had moved on from another one of their captured comrades, because listening to Percy’s story had been heart-wrenching enough. She did not wish to dwell on something that she could do nothing about at the given moment. There would be time to fret over Oliver's rescue later.

“Severus got word to me that Voldemort knows of an anomaly and is using his contacts within the castle to investigate further. Naturally, he will know about Ron Weasley by tomorrow evening. As for the boy’s appearance, I was quite hoping the four of you might know something enlightening.” 

“We’re still searching, but we’ve found nothing so far,” answered Remus. “The problem which we are facing is that there is not a documented case of someone crossing universes. There are all of these theories on them—such as the Collapsing Universe Theory, which states that a soul could cross the boundaries into another universe if the one in which they currently reside is destroyed—but there is nothing that explains how someone can cross their entire body into a universe in which this person does not exist.” 

“Of course, one explanation, according to that spectacularly large book over there, is that Ron Weasley was able to enter this world because, though his counterpart may not be alive, there was still a void which he could fill,” explained James. He shot a dark look at the book on the opposite end of the table that he had abandoned upon Percy’s arrival. It was still opened to the page he had been reading. “Now, we all know that Voldemort killed Molly and Arthur Weasley’s youngest son when he was born. The Doppelganger Void Theory argues that this universe still contains a space for him.” 

“That explains how he could exist without immediate dire consequences on this universe, but that doesn’t explain why he’s here or what affect he may have on all of us,” said Lily. “Furthermore, all of this is assuming that this young man was truthful when he told Minerva who he was. We need to face the real possibility that this is one of Voldemort’s schemes to infiltrate the Order. We’ve already lost too many of our own as a result of judgment errors—the McKinnons, Caradoc Dearborn, Edgar Bones, just to name a few. We can’t afford to blind sighted again.” 

She hated her argument, but she knew it needed to be voiced. Marlene McKinnon’s death eight years earlier still haunted her dreams. Her entire family had been sold out by Sturgis Podmore, who had spied for Voldemort two years prior to that. She did not want to lose anyone else because of the failure of the Order. The others sitting at the table with her grimaced at the reminder of their fallen comrades. The room became suddenly somber. 

“I shall personally visit Ron Weasley tomorrow morning when Minerva goes to see the boy. I will also pay the Woods a visit to inform them of Oliver’s status. I shan’t bother them so late in the night with bad news,” said Dumbledore. The seemingly ever-present twinkle in his eyes dimmed. “Kindly tell Percy to lie low here for a few days. I won’t need his assistance at the Ministry. Keep him here for a few days, and keep an eye on him. I believe this will be the best place for him until he can get his head back on his shoulders.” 

“Well, you can’t blame him, Albus. Oliver’s like a brother to Percy—closer than, considering his family,” said Sirius. He understood Percy Weasley better than any sitting at the table. As a Black, he, too, had rebelled against Voldemort’s ideology. He had run away to the Potters when he was sixteen and had similarly led his Slytherin brother Regulus away from the clutches of Voldemort only a few months later. He remembered how he had felt last summer when James had been captured by the Death Eaters. “He won’t sit idly by.” 

“No, he won’t,” Dumbledore agreed. “He will not be made to, either, but until he can be trusted to not undertaken a one-man rescue mission, he needs to be watched.” 

From upstairs, an ancient grandfather clock struck four times. The first light of a new day was drawing nearer. There were a number of things that needed to be done, but the exhaustion of the eventful evening caught up to the occupants of the kitchen. The pile of books and parchment scattered across the table looked daunting. They were now one man down for the research, since Peter would not be able to get away from the Weasleys until darkness fell again or else he would draw too much unneeded attention. The world did not stop for a loss or for a gain. It continued spinning regardless of the happenings of the war. Three of the five gathered in the kitchen had early classes to teach. Even Sirius and Dumbledore were expected to be at the Ministry in just a few short hours.  

“Let’s have one more butterbeer, shall we?” suggested James. He flicked his wand to refill the mugs. He held his up for a toast—”To one hell of a day that still hasn’t ended.”—before downing half of it in one large gulp. 

 

* * * * *

 

Harry Potter strolled into the Charms classroom, slightly winded due to his dash from Gryffindor Tower. He immediately spotted Draco Malfoy sitting at their usual table near the front of the classroom and dropped into the seat next to him. His book bag hit the stone floor with a soft thump. Draco glanced over his friend, an amused grin on his pale, aristocratic face.

“Late morning?” asked Draco. He shut the Arithmancy book he was reading and shoved it into his own book bag. He pulled out the Charms textbook, placing it on the table in front of him. While Harry had chosen Care of Magical Creatures for an elective, Draco had decided upon Arithmancy. It met before Charms on Tuesday mornings. 

“Was up all night studying for my Divination exam,” grumbled Harry. “I don’t even know why I’m still taking that class. Padfoot said he enjoyed the class, but I think he was lying—that would explain why Dad snorted up his pumpkin juice.” 

Draco barked out a laugh as Professor Lily Potter stepped in front of the blackboard. She flicked her wand at the chalk and allowed it to magically write the words  _Healing Charms_. The class quieted respectfully. She lectured for a while, allowing her students to take as many notes as they wanted on the subject, then allowed them to practice with their wands.

“Stay after class, Harry,” Lily said as she paused in front of his and Draco’s table. She complimented Draco on his form but frowned slightly at her own son's pitiful attempt. She corrected his wandwork before she walked to the next table. 

Draco glanced over at Harry, asking, “What’s that about?” 

Harry shrugged, though he had a feeling that whatever Lily needed to speak to him about was not good news. The  _Daily Prophet_  had not contained any headline stories which might foreshadow what she might tell him, but the newspaper was not the most reliable source of information, even under Peter as the senior editor. Information was carefully guarded by the Ministry these days for fear of mass paranoia. 

By the time class ended, Harry had managed to cast the healing charm twice without flaw. Draco, on the other hand, had perfected it within five minutes and spent the rest of the time chatting to Harry. Other than Hermione Granger, he had been the only person in the class to perfect the charm. The class filed out of the room, but Draco and Harry remained behind. Lily flicked her wand at the closed door, placing a few spells upon it and motioned for them to join her at her desk. 

Lily did not make a fuss about Draco’s presence, because she knew Harry would tell him whatever was said the moment he left the room. It was better to inform him in a secured room than in a busy corridor where anyone could overhear. Draco, Harry, and Neville Longbottom had been friends their entire lives. Mainly due to their parents’ association with the Order, the three boys had socialized with each other at such a young age that they inevitably became best friends as they grew older. Lily thought Draco and Neville were as much her children as they were Narcissa's or Alice’s, and she knew the same consensus was shared by the other two matriarchs. 

“Oliver Wood was captured last night,” she announced. There was little use to be anything but blunt. Harry and Draco were not innocent children. The war would officially be theirs as well in just a few short weeks, and both boys had already unofficially fought for the Order on multiple occasions in the past. “He and Percy were scouting out the Burrow when a Death Eater spotted them. Oliver got Percy away but didn’t have time to escape himself.” 

Harry and Draco stared at Lily in horror. Oliver had been their first quidditch captain, taking Harry on as the youngest seeker in a century during their first year and Draco as a beater who got a kick out of slamming bludgers at Slytherins as a mere second year. He had taken the pair under his wing and built on their love of quidditch which James and Sirius had instilled in them. Off the quidditch pitch, Oliver was a fiercely loyal friend who had never acted as they were too young to know about the goings on of the war or within the Order.

“And…” Lily hesitated, teetering between telling the pair about Ron Weasley or waiting until later to inform them. She knew her son, though, and knew that he would find out quicker than she would think necessary to inform him. “This piece of news stays between the Order. Do you understand?” She paused, waiting for them to nod their consent. After a beat, they did. She resisted the urge to roll her eyes at their blatant lie; they would break that promise as soon as they ran into Neville. But she knew that the news would travel no farther than him, the son of two prominent Order members. “Madam Pomfrey obtained a new patient yesterday afternoon under suspicious circumstances. He says his name is Ron Weasley, and there is reason to believe that this young man is from an alternate universe that could run parallel to ours. We have done research, but not even Albus understands the entirety of the situation.” 

“A  _Weasley_?” sneered Draco. “The last thing the wizarding world needs is another Weasley.” 

Harry agreed with him. The Weasley family was as dark as they came. He had known all but the older two through mutual years at Hogwarts, and, out of them, he had only liked the sole Gryffindor of the lot: Percy. The twins were menaces, wrecking as much havoc as they could, first at Hogwarts then in the war against the Order. Ginny and Hermione, who might as well have been considered a Weasley, were equally dedicated to Voldemort’s cause. Both undeniably brilliant witches, they followed in the footsteps of those before them. 

Lily offered Draco a tight smile that suggested she also agreed with him but knew better than to say that aloud. She instead said, “The Order is looking into the authenticity of this wizard’s claim, but, frankly, it seems possible. This Ron Weasley claims that he was at a battle here at Hogwarts when he was struck by a curse before he woke up in the hospital wing. Madam Pomfrey said she stumbled upon him just lying in the middle of a corridor near the Room of Requirements on her way back from Minerva’s office yesterday morning. She said that he did look as though he had been fighting, covered in scrapes and dust and such. The most interesting aspect, though, is that Minerva claimed the boy was confused upon learning the Weasleys’ association with the Dark Arts. He insisted that he was hit with a curse at a battle in which he and his family fought  _against_  Voldemort.” 

Raising his eyebrows, Harry glanced over at Draco to find that his friend was equally perplexed by what Lily told them. It was not often that Draco did not have a retort ready on his lips to fire off at the appropriate time, but he was silent. Harry thought it was a bit disconcerting to expect Draco to say something clever without the wizard following through.

“You two should hurry on to lunch," said Lily. She had told them enough. "Keep out of trouble, all right? And remember to keep this information to yourself.” 

Dismissed, the pair left the Charms classroom. Harry strolled alongside Draco, matching him step-for-step. The hurried down the Grand Staircase, instinctively skipping the disappearing stair. On the ground floor landing, Neville waited for them. The sleeves of his robes were muddy, and there were a few twigs sticking out of his hair. He had just come from his double Herbology class. There was a splitting grin on his face. 

“Good morning, yeah?” he greeted them as they reached him. He walked toward the Great Hall with them. His shoes squeaked against the stone floor. “Either of you heard the rumors? The hospital wing is closed off—can only see Madam Pomfrey with a professor’s permission, apparently. It’s all the buzz.” 

Draco, the nearest to Neville, quickly muttered a shortened version of Lily’s news. Neville grimaced at the news of Oliver, but his expression transformed into surprise as Draco relayed the part about Ron Weasley. He stopped walking, prompting the other two to halt as well. Harry glanced around them and cast a  _muffliato_  spell. Students ignored the gathered trio as they walked past them. 

“But all Weasleys are evil—only Percy was smart enough to get out of there,” said Neville. He, more than Draco or Harry, despised the Weasley family for the atrocities they had committed, especially because of the number of times a member of that family had attacked a Longbottom. Though his parents were ultimately captured by the Lestranges and Crouch, Neville knew they were being held at the Burrow. He knew the Weasleys, probably Bill, were responsible for extracting information from them. He shuddered to think of the torture his parents were experiencing and hated the fact that he was unable to do anything to save them. If Dumbledore, or Professor McGonagall for that matter, got wind that he was planning to rescue his parents, he would be under twenty-four hour supervision by an Order member. As it was, he was still heavily guarded.

“Not this one, apparently,” said Harry. He did not know how he felt about this mysterious Weasley who claimed to be dedicated to a cause against Voldemort. It was almost too bizarre to be true. Percy had been a fluke—the middle child overshadowed by his older siblings and outshined by his younger siblings. His world view had been shaped in contrast to the environment to which he was exposed. The decision to walk away was not one that he had made lightly. Seventeen years worth of pent up desire to get away had propelled him to show up on the Woods’ doorstep one August morning. He had never looked back, not even as his life became more dangerous due to his active participation in the Order. 

“You think, maybe, we could, uh, nick your father’s old cloak?” suggested Draco, his voice lowered though Harry’s spell prevented anyone from overhearing their conversation anyhow. “It’s been a while since we’ve broke any school rules, you know.” 

“Somebody became prefect, remember? You let the badge go to your head, mate,” Harry reminded him. Two years ago, Draco had received the Gryffindor prefect’s badge alongside Parvati Patil. He had spent the first few weeks of the term boasting about his new prefect status until he realized that neither Harry nor Neville actually wanted the badge in the first place. Harry, who had been named quidditch captain that same year, thought studying for the O.W.L.s while managing the Gryffindor quidditch team was hard enough. He could not imagine having to carry out the extra duties that came along with a prefect’s badge. Out of the three of them, Neville had best dealt with the stress preceding the O.W.L.s and was the only one looking forward to his results that summer. 

Draco shrugged, a faint color rising to his cheeks, though he pointedly ignored it. “Think about it, for a moment,  _Potter_. Everybody knows the story of the sixth Weasley son so why did he suddenly appear in the hospital wing? Sounds a bit fishy, doesn’t it?” 

“Look, I’m in—as long as this doesn’t turn out like the trophy case incident from our first year,” said Neville. He grimaced at the memory. It was the first couple of weeks of school during their first year, and Nott had challenged Harry to a wizard’s duel. The Potter heir, as a second generation Marauder, had never been one to back down from a fight, not even as a tiny first year whose knowledge of magic consisted of prank items and  _Wingardium Leviosa_. He had chosen Neville as his second instead of Draco, because the latter had overslept breakfast. Nonetheless, Draco had accompanied the pair as they went to meet Nott and Hermione Granger in the trophy room that night. The Slytherins had never shown, but Filch and Mrs. Norris had. The Gryffindor trio had fled as soon as they heard footsteps, ducking into a mysterious classroom with a single mirror that showed the heart’s desire.

Harry looked between his friends, from Draco’s challenging smirk to Neville’s encouraging expression. Truthfully, he was just as intrigued by Ron Weasley as they were. He was also looking forward to sneaking around Hogwarts castle after hours like they used to do when they were younger. Ever since Harry’s name got somehow entered into the Goblet of Fire three years prior, it was as if someone was always looking over their shoulders and trouble kept popping up.

“All right. Count me in.” 

Above them, a pair of Slytherins carefully watched the gathered trio. A thin string dangled from Ginny's fingers, but not even an Extendable Ear could penetrate Harry's spell. She admitted defeat and began to reel in the eavesdropping instrument, but the mere movement of the thin string caught Harry's honed eyesight. He narrowed his eyes up at the Slytherins.

“Got to remember to thank Padfoot for that nifty spell,” he muttered. Neville and Draco offered him identical looks of confusion. He nodded toward the Slytherins. Ginny tapped the Extendable Ear with her wand, vanishing it. Draco smirked up at them. Hermione shot the trio a dirty look before she and Ginny disappeared from sight. “Probably another one of her brothers' bloody inventions, but not even they can outsmart the Marauders.” 

“Seven years, and I still can't believe the Weasleys took in a muggleborn,” muttered Draco. Harry glanced at him sharply, but he knew the Malfoy heir did not put much weight on blood statuses. It was kind of hard to place too much emphasis on it, because of his association with the Order, which was full of all types of wizards. Draco preferred, much like Neville and Harry, to base someone's worth on how they treated those around them. The Weasleys, on the other hand, were avid followers of Voldemort and practitioners of the dark arts. Blood purity carried serious weight in their world.

“Yes, well, seventeen years, and I still can't believe you leave your smelly socks everywhere,” retorted Neville. “Seriously, Draco, if you're not going to clean them right away, keep them away from whatever I may come into contact with. I swear to Godric the stench would run off a troll!” 

Rolling his eyes in a truly aristocratic manner, Draco huffed. It was not often that the air of superiority seemingly bred into his ancestry shined through the Malfoy heir's actions. He was careful with his treatment of others. After all, he had grown up witnessing his horrible aunt Bellatrix embody the stereotypical Black family genes. He, in a fashion similar to that of his parents and his cousins Sirius and Regulus, rejected the ideology of pureblood supremacy when he added his wands to the fight against the dark arts.

Harry cracked a grin, which was quickly followed by a hearty laugh. Draco glared at Neville and then him before strutting away. The bubble of the spell burst, leaving Neville and Harry loudly howling at the foot of the Grand Staircase. 

 

* * * * *

 

Tied to a chair, Oliver Wood did not raise his head when he heard his cell door creak open. He was weakened, exhausted, from the hours of torture to which he had been submitted. To move his head from its resting position against his chest would require more strength than he currently possessed. He felt groggy with pain, light-headed from blood loss. He was sure he should be dead by now, but he had not yet broken. Voldemort never allowed an unbroken man the mercy to die.

A cup of stale water was pressed to his lips, but Oliver had no desire to drink. The Death Eater—Bill Weasley, Oliver regretted to realize—grabbed a handful of his hair and jerked his head back roughly, pouring the stale water down Oliver’s parched throat regardless of his defiance. When the cup was empty, Bill tossed it aside. He stepped back from the prisoner, examining him. Oliver licked his lips. The water had restored some of his energy so he gazed up at his torturer. 

Bill Weasley had not changed much from the perfect Head Boy of Hogwarts that Oliver remembered him as, nearly nine years ago. His fiery red hair hung down his shoulders and was free of the elastic with which normally held it back. He had a few faded scars up and down his arms. His eyes were the same color as Percy’s, but there was an unfamiliar cold glint shining from them that unsettled Oliver. Voldemort’s prized Curse Breaker was also his hand-chosen torturer—Bill Weasley could be, according to some, worse than even Bellatrix Lestrange.

Oliver had tasted Charlie’s brand of torture earlier this morning in the form of fire and poison. He assumed he was about to experience Bill’s methods. He should be terrified. He had heard the stories of things Bill Weasley had done to James Potter, and he had witnessed the tremble to the great Auror’s voice as he spoke. Oliver was not an Auror; he had not been trained to fight. He was a professional quidditch player for Puddlemere United whose only connection to the war was Percy Weasley, his brother in all but blood. He had joined the Order, because he had to keep Percy safe from a family who had already hurt him so much. Oliver was good at scouting, at planning maneuvers, and at executing lightning-quick rescues—skills that bled over from his quidditch profession.

“You will break, you know,” Bill said conversationally. If Oliver blocked out the tiny room in which he was held and the pain radiating from his body, he could almost imagine this was just a mundane conversation between two wizards; however, the blood slowly trickling down the side of his face reminded him of the harsh reality of the situation. “They all do… eventually.” 

“Not all,” Oliver reminded him with the slightest edge of a gloat to his voice. “Does the name James Potter ring a bell?” 

A cloud of anger crossed Bill’s face, but it quickly dissipated. He twirled his wand around in his fingers. Oliver followed the erratic pattern with a resigned realization that he was about to feel a lot of pain. He resolved to keep quiet. He had sacrificed himself, because Percy would not have made it past the threshold of the Burrow alive. If he broke, Percy was dead, and his sacrifice would, therefore, be in vain. 

“ _Crucio_ ,” said Bill coldly, flicking his wand in Oliver’s direction. Pain erupted inside of him like he had never before felt, and he screamed as loud as he could, caring not for silence. Surely the louder he screamed, the quicker it would be over. But it lasted for what seemed like forever before Bill flicked his wand once again.

The sudden lack of pain almost gave Oliver whiplash. His breathing was labored. His heart beat frantically in his chest. He took a couple of seconds to recover then put on his best defiant smirk, saying, “That the best you got? Could’ve called in Bellatrix for that.” 

Studying him, Bill shook his head. He ran his finger up the wood grain of his wand. For a moment, he said nothing. Then, “I’m just getting warmed up.” He muttered something that Oliver did not catch. A bright flash of pink light slammed into his chest, and everything went black. Other than blind him, the spell did nothing. He briefly wondered if Bill’s spell had failed, but he immediately knew better. Percy had often been compared to Bill, and if Oliver knew his best friend, then he also knew that Bill’s spell did exactly what it was meant to do.

Oliver blinked his eyes, noting how disconcerting it was to see only blackness. He heard a shuffling noise. In the next instant, the tip of Bill’s wand pressed against his temple. He swallowed the spit that had gathered in his mouth, willing his heart to stop pounding in his ears. He felt a flash of terror as he understood James Potter’s tremble with a little more clarity.

“The Dark Lord wants you broken as quickly as possible,” said Bill in an even, well-paced voice. He towered over Oliver, looking down at him through his calculating eyes. “And trust me when I say I’m going to have fun breaking you.” 

Bill muttered another curse, one that Oliver had never before heard . The spell hit instantly. He felt it spread across his forehead and ripple into his mind. He saw a successive stream of memories—an eleven-year-old Oliver opening his Hogwarts letter, a second year trying out for the keeper position on the Gryffindor quidditch team, receiving the captain’s badge two years later, a seventeen-year-old opening the front door to a distressed Percy Weasley. The spell ended abruptly, Oliver’s mind lingering upon the last memory as Bill chuckled overhead.

“Oh, yes, Oliver Wood, this is going to be fun indeed.” 

Then Bill plunged himself into the final memory, distorting its fabric until Oliver felt as though his head would explode. A seventeen-year-old Percy Weasley writhed in pain on the doorstep of Oliver’s childhood home. Oliver stared helplessly at his friend, restrained by the boundaries of the spell from doing anything except witness the absolute terror which Percy experienced. He tried to scream, but his voice was gone. For what seemed like eternity, He clawed at the invisible barrier between himself and his best friend, trying desperately to get Percy out of the way of the constant silver stream of light erupting from Bill’s wand. Somewhere deep inside himself, Oliver knew the memory was not true, but that voice was tiny compared to Percy’s heart-wrenching screams.

And through it all, Bill Weasley laughed.

 

* * * * *

 

Professor McGonagall strolled into the Hospital Wing, locking the doors behind herself and Minister for Magic Albus Dumbledore. Madam Pomfrey glanced up through the window of her office and nodded a greeting before returning her attention to the paperwork lying on her desk. The sole occupant of the infirmary snoozed restlessly in his assigned bed. Whipping out her wand, Professor McGonagall conjured two chairs.

Ron Weasley’s unkempt flaming red hair stood in contrast to the white pillow upon which he rested his head. His skin was paled as if he had eaten very little for a very long time. There were tiny scrapes all over his face and arms there were in varying stages of healing. The edges of an elaborate scar peeked out from underneath his issued robes, standing light pink against his pale skin. Professor McGonagall shared a look with Dumbledore. Even more so than when had been awake, Ron Weasley truly looked as though he had been fighting in a rough war. 

Gradually, his war-honed senses alerting him to the presence of Professor McGonagall and Dumbledore, Ron blinked awake. His fingers twitched as he fought against the urge to grab his wand and point it in their faces. For a flash of a second, he was confused, peering anxiously at Dumbledore until he remembered that the former headmaster was alive in this alternate universe. He forced himself to relax.

“How are you feeling this morning, Mister Weasley?” questioned Professor McGonagall. She kept her expression impassive, though friendly, as the dark surname fell from her lips. Next to her, Dumbledore appeared much kinder, but the old wizard had always possessed a quality that put anyone at ease. It was why he was the most logical choice for the position of Minister for Magic. 

Ron thought for a moment, cataloguing his injuries. The potions Madam Pomfrey had given him had healed his most serious injuries; however, he was still sore. Bandages, magically taped to his skin, kept topical potions across the burns he had received during the battle.

“Like I fell off the wrong end of a dragon,” he muttered, feeling a spark of amusement at their confused expressions. He did not feel like explaining any further, perfectly content to allow them to believe whatever they wanted about his statement. The memory of Gringotts was fresh in his mind, though it felt like a lifetime ago, and he wished he were still there, still among the chaos of the war in a universe where everything was right—where his family fought Voldemort and he had survived to an adult. 

“I would introduce you, but I believe you are already familiar with Minister for Magic Albus Dumbledore,” said Professor McGonagall. She vaguely recalled Ron mentioning a deluminator in Dumbledore's will. She did not want to imagine a world in which Albus Dumbledore was dead, a world which would leave such a valuable magical artifact to such a young man for unknown reasons. Somewhere in her mind, she acknowledged that Ron Weasley had come from a world in which that was reality and that he carried a heavy weight upon his shoulders which none his age should have to fathom. “We would like to ask you a few questions, if you are feeling up for it.” 

Ron sat up, leaning against his pillow. He gazed warily at Dumbledore, recalling that the headmaster he had known turned down the ministry position. He thought it odd that this Dumbledore had not made the same choice, but he supposed circumstances were different. In this world, Voldemort had not fallen Halloween 1981; the wizarding society lived in constant fear, not knowing that this evil could be beaten.

“Tell me, Mister Weasley, what is the last thing you recall prior to waking in this hospital wing?” prompted Dumbledore. He had never been a man to put off important issues. He observed Ron as the young wizard processed the question. Dumbledore tried to peer into his mind, but he encountered a barrier reminiscent to one an occulmens might have possessed. 

“The Battle of Hogwarts. Voldemort broke through the wards to the school and attacked with his army of Death Eaters. We almost had him—we’d spent months tracking down and destroying the pieces of his soul. There was an explosion outside of the Room of Requirements that—well… Some Death Eater threw a curse, and I jumped in front of it,” explained Ron, wincing. He had a lot of time to think about what had been lost at the Battle. He thought about Fred and wondered how his family was coping with the loss of not one but two sons.

“And you do not know what type of curse this was? May I run a diagnostics charm to identify it?” asked Dumbledore, and Ron shrugged. Raising his wand, he muttered a spell. The spell was a rather new invention that Remus and Peter had worked hard to create in the days following the rescue of James Potter last summer. James had been terrified that he was compromised, that Voldemort’s magic had left traces which turned him into a liability to the Order. It had been, therefore, necessary to determine the exact nature of the magical traces James carried with him.

Frowning at the results of the diagnostics charm, Dumbledore glanced warily at Professor McGonagall. She pursed her lips, reading the strange yellow glow which emanated from Ron’s body. She knew the spell as well as Dumbledore did. She had personally performed it many times over the past few months. It had been she who had discovered the imperius curse that had been placed upon Dedalus Diggle, who had been responsible for leaving Frank and Alice Longbottom vulnerable during the raid on Hogwarts. 

“Tell me, Mister Weasley, about this battle of which you speak,” prompted Dumbledore. “What was your involvement in it?” 

Ron paused, gathering his thoughts. Then he said, “I was Harry Potter’s secondhand man—one-third of the frontline defense in the Second War against Voldemort. Harry was the Chosen One after Voldemort murdered his parents Halloween of 1981. He fell that night, freeing the wizarding world of his rule for about thirteen years. He came back—was resurrected—a couple of years ago in June. Things got bad so Harry, Hermione Granger, and I skipped our last year at Hogwarts to go hunting down his Horcruxes, and we almost got them all, too, but… I dunno. I woke up here.” 

“They do exist?” asked Dumbledore, his blue eyes twinkling with surprise. “I always thought, but I was never certain. Horace Slughorn went into hiding before I could get a definite answer from him. That was back over fifteen years ago.” 

“Oh, you had Harry use his fame against Professor Slughorn in order to convince him to give up his memories. At least in my world, Voldemort asked Slughorn about the Horcruxes, and he told him,” explained Ron. “Bloody lot of good that done everybody, eh? The bastard created like seven of them.” 

The twinkle in Dumbledore’s eyes dimmed. He had long suspected that Voldemort had dabble in ancient dark arts, but he had never fathomed the extreme to which the dark wizard had gone. He wanted to believe that the Voldemort which ruled in this world was different than the one against whom Ron Weasley had fought, but he knew better than to be naïve. Once his eyes were opened to the truth, it was impossible for Dumbledore to deny the traces of dark magic he felt in ordinary objects such as a diary across which he had come long ago or a family heirloom ring that he had stumbled upon two summers prior. He had been within reach of destroying Voldemort but had known nothing about it.

“Do you know the exact artifacts which Voldemort used for these Horcruxes?” asked Dumbledore. 

“You think Voldemort used the same vessels?” Professor McGonagall asked, hardly able to believe the young man lying on the bed had personally undertaken a mission to destroy the darkest wizard of the age. The longer she gazed upon the war-weathered wizard, the easier it was for her to picture him in her classroom or in her house. She knew even if Ronald Weasley had not been killed as a baby in this universe that he would have broken the Slytherin mold of his family and been sorted into Gryffindor as a small first year.

“There are certain things that transcend even the strongest divisions of universes,” responded Dumbledore. There was no doubt in his mind that this Ron Weasley was being truthful. The yellow glow of the spell had only indicated that a dark curse had struck, though not clung to, him; it could have very well been responsible for Ron’s arrival into this universe. He was not being controlled by dark forces, not even by Voldemort himself. “I believe our Lord Voldemort and the Lord Voldemort which Ron Weasley fought may be creatures very much the same.” 

“You’re forgetting, sir, that the Weasley family is much different here,” pointed out Ron in a dull voice. He had thought a lot about the nature of the Weasley family in this universe. He likened them to the Malfoy family from his universe, and the mere comparison set his nerves on end. Similar to the first few months on the run, he felt waves of homesickness wash over him. This time, though, he could not simply Apparate home. 

“That is something into which I shall look, Mister Weasley, for I believe there exists an explanation as to why there is such a stark difference between this world and yours.” 


	4. Counterparts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco learns to watch his tongue. There's a bedroom which nobody enters. The Order makes plans.

Harry huddled closely to Neville and Draco under the cover of the invisibility cloak. Six years ago such a feat was much easier. They were tinier then, and all they had to worry about was not getting a blackened eye from Draco's sharp elbow. Now, they also had to use an illusion charm on their feet to cover what the cloak did not reach.

“It would have been so much easier to just charm our entire bodies,” muttered Neville. “Ouch, Draco! That was my foot.” 

“I can't help it if you have abnormally large feet. I'm trying to walk, you know,” responded Draco. He pointedly ignored the pink tinge of the tips of his ears, knowing his companions could not see it anyhow given their close proximity to each other. They were nearing the hospital wing, but it had been a long journey from Gryffindor Tower. “We tried the full-body charm last time, and Mrs. Norris spotted us. Do you really want to serve a week’s worth of detention with Filch again scrubbing the fourth floor corridor?”

“Because three pair of legs without any bodies isn't suspicious enough,” snapped Neville. In his early years at Hogwarts, he had hated sneaking around the castle at night while Draco and Harry had relished in it. Neville had never seen the need in exploring the castle under the invisibility cloak until their fourth year when Harry had been faced with the underwater challenge for the second task. While Draco had been chosen as the item which was stolen from Harry, Neville had searched diligently through the night with Harry for something to allow him to breathe underwater for an hour. Finally, near four that morning, as Harry dozed off on top of a stack of thick text books, Neville found the answer in the form of gillyweed. So he had taken the invisibility cloak from Harry's trunk and traipsed through the halls of Hogwarts to the potions storage room which personally belonged to Professor Snape. It had become one of his favorite memories—watching Professor Snape's normally colorless face turn different shades of red as he realized that the gillyweed Harry used came from his own stash. Since that experience, Neville finally understood the thrill of exploring Hogwarts after hours. 

Harry shot them a sharp look, silencing them. Neville and Draco winced simultaneously. The door to the hospital wing was closed. Harry glanced around them, taking note of the empty hallway. He pulled out his wand and tapped it against the lock, muttering the correct charm. With a click, the door sprang open. He peered into the hospital wing that was lit by faint candle light. The sole occupant of the room was still awake, gazing curiously down the long room toward Harry. It was now or never, he knew, as the trio squeezed into the hospital wing. Draco quietly shut the door behind them. 

“Who's there?” called Ron Weasley. He scrambled for his wand. Grabbing it off the table next to him, he pointed it toward the door. Every nerve stood on end as his battle-honed senses went into overdrive. “Reveal yourself!” 

Ron flicked his wrist. A jet of light flashed from the end of his wand. The illusion charm vanished. He lowered his eyebrows, gazing at the three sets of legs, as he tightened his hold on his wand. Harry sighed as he took off the invisibility cloak; there was no use for it anymore. Ron gasped, eyes darting between the trio. He never loosened his grip on his wand. 

“What the bloody hell is this?” he demanded, jabbing his wand in Draco's direction. His mind flashed to the Room of Requirement. He could almost feel the heat of the flames from the Fiendfyre nipping at his robes, Goyle's sweaty palm as he hefted him onto the broomstick, and even the whiplash as the unbearable smoky air transitioned to clean cool air in the corridor outside of the room.

For a brief moment, a wave of homesickness washed over him that not even the familiarity of Harry's face could trump. Then it was gone, and Ron was out of bed, his wand inches from Draco's face. In an instant, both Neville and Harry drew their wands on Ron. Draco focused his gray eyes upon the tip of the weapon, his own fingers wrapping around the dark wooden handle of his hawthorn wand.

“You want to get your wand out of my face, mate?” suggested Draco in the coldest voice he could manage. He was a Malfoy, after all. Ron merely tightened his grip of his wand and drew it closer to him. He glanced over at Harry, pleading. 

“We're not going to fight you,” said Harry quietly to Ron. 

“We're  _not_?” demanded Draco, his voice raising comically a couple of octaves. “There's a wand in my face, Harry!”

“No, we're not,” insisted Harry. He elbowed Draco warningly, silencing the Malfoy heir's further protests. The corner of Ron's lips twitched, as if the wizard was fighting back a grin. “We're just curious, that's all. Are you really Ron... Weasley?” 

Ron cocked his head toward Harry, a dumbfounded expression written across his face. When Professor McGonagall had asked him the same question the morning prior, he had thought it was unsettling, but with Harry, Ron felt like his wand had backfired with a slug jinx. His best friend for seven years—the man with whom he had gone on the run and alongside whom he had fought Voldemort—did not know whom he was.  

“I think I can answer that one,” interrupted Draco with a smirk as Ron's confused expression morphed into a bewildered one. The wand wavered in front of his face, and Draco felt a temporary flash of reckless abandonment that his father swore came from the Black genes in him. “Red hair? Freckles? An air of superiority? He's a  _Weasley_ , just like your mum said, Harry.” 

Ron huffed, partially in amusement, mind flashing to the very moment he had met Draco Malfoy as a tiny first year on their way to Hogwarts. He had been a bit timid then, growing up in the shadows of five older brothers though not having been coddled because his own shadow was cast across a younger sister; but he had changed a lot since over the years. A war would do that to a person, especially when faced with as much death as he had in such a short time. So Ron took the opportunity presented to him and reacted the way he wished he would have almost seven years ago in his own universe: he reeled back and punched Draco Malfoy square in the nose.

Draco staggered backward, clutching his face. Harry and Neville wands inched closer to Ron, but the wizard had lowered his own by now and was chuckling at Draco. The Malfoy heir glared at Ron through watery eyes. He tentatively lowered one of his hands, checking it for blood. His nose was unharmed, if a bit more crooked.

“Hermione was right—that  _does_  feel good,” said Ron, grinning widely. Instead of a wave of homesickness which he had expected as he uttered his friend's name, he felt warm with the familiar memory. He glanced at Harry then Neville's wands. Rolling his eyes, he pushed the weapons away from him. “Seriously, you two are going to take out an eye.” 

“What does Hermione have to do with this?” spat Neville, a strange look of distaste upon his face. The trophy room incident had been the first in a long line of disagreements between the trio of Gryffindors and the Weasley siblings. Neville was most unhappy with the unspoken feud, as he was normally the victim of their schemes—if only through his own dumb luck such as the misfortunate quidditch training session during their first year when Hermione had set his robes aflame with blue fire. 

“Hermione's brilliant,” responded Ron, momentary confusion evident. Then he noticed the way Neville stiffened at the compliment and the way both Harry and Draco's faces scrunched up with antipathy. Suddenly, he recalled Professor McGonagall's description of the Hermione Granger in this universe, and the warm feeling that had taken up residence in his chest turned instantly ice cold as horror washed over him. He felt like he needed to sit down so he staggered to the nearest bed to lean against it.

“Er—you all right?” asked Harry, concerned. He glanced over at Draco and then Neville, reading the shared sense of apprehension rolling off them. They were just as puzzled regarding Ron's mention of Hermione Granger, the perfect example of Slytherin House for all intents and purposes. Harry had a feeling many things were different in this alternate universe of which Lily had spoken and from which Ron had come. “Look, she's brilliant, I'll give you that, but... I don't really think she's the same as the Hermione Granger you know.” 

Ron's eyes snapped to Harry, a glint of panic deep within them. Harry briefly wondered if Ron had expected him to know the exact nature of his arrival. He doubted that Ron even knew the Order's business would be Harry's within just a few short weeks so there was no point in secrecy any longer. If Ron's story was as authentic as Dumbledore believed, then he would soon learn the Orders secrets as well. Something deep inside of Harry was drawn to Ron, though every rational fiber of his being cringed at the idea of teaming up with a Weasley—Percy had been the exception, because his situation was similar to that of Hermione Grangers: he was a Wood in all but name. This Ron, though, he reminded Harry a lot of Percy. Beyond similar appearances, Ron handled himself like Percy did—steadily, calculatingly, and passionately. He contained none of the cold nature that the rest of the Weasley siblings displayed. 

“Mum told me—er, us,” explained Harry. “Said you came from another place where there was an ultimate battle against Voldemort.” He paused, grinning with anticipation that Ron might elaborate on the specifics of such a battle, but Ron remained resolutely quiet. “We weren't expecting you to still be awake, you know. Just thought we'd pop in and see if you were really... er...” 

“A Weasley?” guessed Ron, a twisted grin on his face that echoed his elder twin brothers. The grin fell into a grimace as he recalled digging through the rubble to find Fred's dead body. He found his thoughts circling back to his family and wondered how empty George felt inside at the loss of his other half. 

As a lump built up in Ron's throat, he pushed aside any thoughts of the Battle of Hogwarts. He was faced with bigger issues at the given moment, namely how he was going to get back to his own universe. Because no matter how much that world had lost—Fred, Remus, Tonks, Dobby, Mad-Eye Moody, Dumbledore, Snape, Sirius, James, Lily, just to name a few—Ron had fought for that world. He had bled for that universe. He had nearly died for that war. That was his home, where his family fought against Voldemort as prominent members of the Order of the Phoenix and his best friends had his back no matter the circumstances.

In this strange world, Ron did not belong. Harry's best friends were Draco and Neville. The Malfoys were not the great followers of Voldemort; instead, the Weasleys were. His father had led a failed attack on Hogwarts itself, and his brother Percy was the only one who had managed to escape. Hermione was a Slytherin and just as dark as the Weasleys who had raised her as their own. It was like Ron had stepped through a mirror, where everything he had held as universal truths was flipped upside down.

“Look, you seem like a nice bloke,” said Draco, touching his nose tenderly. He winced at the small flair of pain and hoped it would not turn an ugly shade of purple. His skin was so naturally pale that bruises showed up like neon lights on his face. “Certainly not as mad or, well, evil as the rest of your family so why don't we start over?” 

Draco thrust his hand toward Ron as a peace offering. Ron's mind briefly flashed to his first year when Draco had offered Harry his friendship to lead him away from the Weasleys. Staring at the proffered hand, he realized that the wizard standing in front of him was not the spoiled heir to the Malfoy family who would one day follow in his father's footsteps to become, a later regretful, Death Eater. No, the wizard standing in front of him may have still been the Malfoy heir, but he was also Harry's best friend who had not retaliated for the earlier punch though he would have had the right to do so.

A beat of hesitation and then Ron's large hand grasped Draco's dry one. It was a brief, firm handshake. Ron almost expected the ground to shake due to the historic moment. A Weasley and a Malfoy were sworn enemies, apparently regardless of the universe. But he saw the sincerity written across Draco's face. Ron may not have ever teamed up with the Draco Malfoy from his own universe, but he did have to acknowledge that it would be unfair to be prejudiced against this Draco because of past experiences with his counterpart.

“Granddad Weasley's rolling in his grave,” Ron said. He paused. “Probably here and there.” 

Draco cracked a smile, letting go of Ron's hand. Neville tentatively shook his hand as well, but there was no hesitation with Harry. There were minor differences between this Harry and his counterpart that Ron had known as his best friend. For at least the past year, though Ron would almost say since Sirius' death, Harry had carried a haunted weight about his persona. When Ron had last seen his Harry, the wizard had been unshaved and unkempt; they had been on the run with no need to look presentable every day. The most unkempt aspect of this Harry was his wild jet black hair, but Ron knew this was caused by the Potter genes. There were other minor differences about him as well, though the invisibility cloak clutched in Harry's hand was the same silvery silky material that Ron remembered disappearing under many times throughout the last seven years.

“Your scar!” Ron gasped, horror filling him as he noticed Harry's unmarked forehead. He gripped the bed behind him. He was unable to keep from staring at the spot where the lightning bolt scar should have been, his thoughts revolving around what its absence might mean for this universe.

Harry lowered his eyebrows at Ron, bewildered at the redhead's outburst. On either side of him, Neville and Draco shared his confusion. Harry opened his mouth to question the wizard, but footsteps outside of the hospital wing caught his attention. As the steps drew nearer, the others noticed as well. Ron snapped out of his stupor and dashed to his assigned bed as Harry threw the invisibility cloak over himself, Draco, and Neville. They had no chance of escape, could only hope that it was not someone like Snape who might instantly spot the trio of concealed wizards crouching under the thin cloak, so they remained motionless in their spot.

A wand tapped against the door, though it was not locked. A fraction of a second later, the door creaked slowly open. Harry waited for someone to enter, but there was no one. The footsteps, soft against the harsh stone, strolled down the hospital wing. Harry peered over the top of the bed and noticed that Ron was feigning sleep rather convincingly.

Neville gasped almost inaudibly, slowly drawing his wand. He muttered a quick spell, sending a rush of wind through the hospital wing and neutralizing the Weasley twins' signature invisibility shield. Visible, Hermione and Ginny whipped out their wands. They stood back-to-back, wands carefully circling the room. Rainbow colored rings encircled their thumb fingers, though the effects of the shield had crumbled with Neville's spell.

Barely moving, Draco tapped Neville then Harry between their shoulder blades with his wand. He recast the illusion charms on them and himself as he dug through the pocket of his robes. His fingers clasped the tiny cubed die. Ginny's wand passed over the trio. Draco counted to three then gently tossed the die. It clattered against the floor, coming to a rest at Hermione's feet. Startled, the witch stared at it for a few seconds before her eyes widened as realization dawned upon her. It was too late. The die exploded with a loud bang in a shower of red ink, and the Gryffindor trio darted from the hospital wing.

 

* * * * *

 

Molly Weasley climbed the rickety stairs to the tiny attic bedroom which had set mournfully empty for the past eighteen years. She remembered making the announcement to Arthur that they would need to add an extra room at the top of the house for their sixth bundle of magical joy. They had spent months preparing the household for another child, but everything turned south on the last day of February 1980.

The pale blue paint was peeling by now. Where a crib had once stood, a tiny bed with a red duvet was now pushed up against the wall. It had remained mostly unused. Very few people even ventured past the first couple of levels of the house. Molly herself had vaguely visited the room over the past eighteen years, but for some odd reason, she felt drawn to the room in which her child never got to sleep. 

“Mollywobbles,” Arthur Weasley’s voice floated up the flight of stairs into the room. He appeared behind her in the doorway a second later. Letting out a long sigh, he placed his hand upon her shoulder. She half-turned, leaning into her beloved husband’s chest. “I know,” he murmured. “I feel it to—this room calls to me.” 

“I don’t know what it is, Arthur. I keep picturing what he would look like, sound like, act like. I just... just wonder what I’m missing out on,” said Molly. She had aged gracefully, but her life had not been easy. She had raised six children, lost one baby, and served the Dark Lord through an endless war. She longed for the day the Dark Lord finally triumphed and quashed the Order of the Phoenix. Then maybe she would stop worrying so much about whether she would have to bury another one of her children.

Arthur was silent. He blinked his blue eyes rapidly to rid them of the tears which had gathered. He pushed his spectacles farther up his nose. He remembered the cold, dark night when he had failed the Dark Lord. There had been a traitor in their midst, but Arthur did not know that until it was too late. The Longbottoms had escaped just moments before the attack had taken place. By the time Arthur made it back to the Burrow, the Dark Lord’s anger had already surfaced; there was nothing he could do to save his youngest son. Arthur vowed he would never make the same mistake. His children would never again suffer because of his incompetence. So when Molly announced she was pregnant a few months later, Arthur was careful about the missions he undertook. He did not give the Dark Lord another reason to attack his family. 

Molly drew in a shaky breath. She recomposed herself, knowing better than to allow her sorrows to overcome her. She was the matriarch of the powerful Weasley family. It would not do to show weakness. The Order of the Phoenix would pounce quickly if they sensed any sign of vulnerability. Her son was dead. There was no bringing him back. She had mourned him eighteen years ago. There was no need to mourn him any longer. 

“The Dark Lord asks that we keep out newest prisoner well-fed,” said Molly, standing up. She looked down at Arthur and watched as he peered around the room one last sorrowful time. When his gaze fell upon her, his cloudy expression softened. “He believes that this Oliver Wood will be the final piece to get Percy back on the right side. Charlie’s with him right now, trying to get information, but your son is liable to kill the prisoner before we can use him. Kindly remind Charlie to use the potions whenever he finishes.” 

Molly leaned forward and placed a soft kiss upon Arthur’s cheek. She left the tiny attic bedroom, descending the rickety stairs all the way to the ground floor. Her sitting room was occupied as usual, and she offered her guests a warm smile. It was not often that the majority of the Weasley children gathered at the Burrow, but it was always a treat when they managed to do so. Bill and the twins sat sprawled around the squishy sofas discussing the upcoming quidditch match. Lee Jordan was there as well, sitting crossways in an armchair and looking at home. Similar to Hermione, Lee had been welcomed into the Weasley family with opened arms; however, unlike her, there was never the need to formally adopt him.

“I tested the wards, Mum,” said Bill, turning away from the twins to face his mother. His hair was tied back in an elastic band. A fresh set of scratches lined his left cheek. He wore a simple pair of trousers and a t-shirt. Though the Weasleys were a pureblood family, the younger generation had taken a liking to the freedom muggle clothing allowed them. Bill was always complaining that his robes got in the way of the dirtier work of curse breaking. “They’re sound—not even Albus Dumbledore himself could break through them without immense difficulty.” 

“It’s not Dumbledore who’s the problem,” said George. The quidditch conversation came to an abrupt halt, as Fred and Lee also abandoned the topic. “The term at Hogwarts ends in a few weeks, and then James Potter is back on full-time Auror duty. Sirius Black is giving us enough trouble as it is—we’ve had to relocate the testing room three times in the past month alone.” 

“Well, we’ll just have to keep them otherwise occupied, won’t we?” challenged Lee, grinning widely. He loved setting up traps and was one of the masterminds behind the scheme that resulted in the capture of the Longbottoms. That was one of the reasons he had volunteered to work with the twins at the shop. Where they specialized in inventing, Lee was brilliant at scheming. “Send them on a wild goose chase across the countryside. Might not fool ‘em for long, but they’ll at least be distracted for a bit.” 

For a moment, a gut-wrenching scream broke through the natural quiet of the Burrow. The silencing spell had faltered under the pressure of Charlie’s wand work. The occupants of the room winced minutely, though they felt little sympathy for the prisoner in question. Oliver Wood had not broken, but the Dark Lord was only so patient. Terrible consequences were bound to fall the Weasley family, in particular to the pair of torturers Bill and Charlie, if Oliver turned out to be as resilient as James Potter or the Longbottoms. 

“Bet Ginny could get that bastard to talk in five minutes,” said Fred.

Molly glared at the eldest twin with such intensity that Fred grimaced in regret. “My daughter will  _not_  question prisoners. She will be of assistance elsewhere.” Molly turned to Bill, pointing a finger at him. He shrank back from her. “You and Charlie will not convince your sister to follow in your footsteps, do you hear me?” 

Bill threw up his hands, a universal sign of surrender. He shot Fred a dirty glare then answered his mother, saying, “I won’t breathe a word, Mum, but I hate to tell you that it won’t make a difference. Ginny’s a Weasley, and Weasleys don’t let anyone stand in their way if they want to do something. Just look at the twins or, rather, look at Percy.” 

Percy’s name was not spoken among the family very often. As a front, the siblings claimed to despise him; however, Molly knew her children. The Weasley blood was thick. To walk away from the family took an enormous amount of courage. On one hand, the Weasleys were almost proud of Percy for sticking to his beliefs, but this was overshadowed by the sense of betrayal he had left in his wake. Percy was a Weasley first and foremost, and Weasleys never let go of one another. It was only a matter of time before Percy slipped up. When he did, there would be another Weasley who would bring him back home. 

Molly bristled at the mention of Percy, but she said nothing on the subject. Instead, she asked Bill, “When are you relieving Charlie?” 

“Shortly, I suppose. He will probably take a break soon enough,” he responded, glancing at his watch. The golden wrist watch had once belonged to Gideon Prewett. He and his twin brother Fabian, both Molly’s younger siblings, had fallen in battle against a group of Order members including Frank Longbottom, Alastor Moody, Lily Evans Potter, and two others just months before Bill’s eleventh birthday. Six years later, Bill had received the memento of his late uncle as a token of his coming-of-age and had treasured it ever since. 

As if on cue, Charlie appeared in the doorway to the cellar. Drenched in sweat, his short hair was matted to his forehead. He wiped a hand across his face, wiping away the perspiration from his freckled cheeks. He still looked as though he belonged at a dragon reserve, but as the war intensified, the Dark Lord had called back as many Death Eaters as he could afford.

“Prisoner's all yours,” he said to Bill. He drew out his wand and tapped it against his robes to rid them of the worst of the bloodstains. As he walked past his mother, he pressed a quick kiss to her cheek. He sat down next to George. Digging into his pocket, he pulled out a tiny marble and tossed it to the twin. “I think you need to renew the charm on them. Worked well the first couple of times, but then it went a bit wonky. Shot out some black gunk that burnt anything it touched.” 

Grimacing, George examined the tiny purple marble closely. He tapped it with the tip of his wand, muttering an incantation. The marble glowed bright pink then faded to a soft white. George glanced over at Fred, pocketing the marble. “The time-release charm isn't holding. We'll have to test out a new recipe or none of them will work.” He looked back at Charlie. “We'll have you a new prototype to test out next time.” 

The twins quietly muttered potential replacement spells for the marble. Bill clapped his hands together, holding them as he stood up. He strolled across the sitting room to the cellar door. Just as he was reaching for the handle, there was a knock at the back door. Molly answered it, revealing Peter Pettigrew, one of the Dark Lord's most valuable spies. She ushered him inside the sitting room then into the seat which Bill had vacated. Peter nodded a greeting to the other wizards gathered.

“The Dark Lord is out, I presume?” asked Peter. He was always welcomed at the Weasley household. He had served the Dark Lord faithfully for twenty or so odd years. He was in the perfect position to spy on the Order of the Phoenix, as the alleged best friend of James Potter, Sirius Black, and Remus Lupin. He easily skirted among Dumbledore's finest to pass information along to the Dark Lord regarding the status or plans of the enemy. 

“At the Lestranges,” confirmed Molly. “Stay for lunch, Peter. You're getting thin as a rail; you can't be eating well.” 

“Lunch sounds wonderful. I shall wait for the Dark Lord,” agreed Peter. He surveyed the room as Molly left, his gaze resting briefly upon the cellar door in front of which Bill stood. The brief pause drew no notice from the others, but Peter saw the twitch in Bill's fingers. It was the first slip up anybody had caught since the Longbottoms' capture. He knew it was confirmation of the location of the newest prisoner, especially as Peter also spied the faint traces of blood which stained Charlie's robes. He quickly quelled the desire to blast his way down to the holding cells to rescue the Longbottoms and Oliver; it would not do anyone any good for Peter to get himself killed. After three subtle calming breaths, he addressed Charlie, “How's the dragon in Gringott's doing?” 

Charlie grinned, his face lighting up with passion for his beloved subject. Peter knew Charlie had no business serving the Dark Lord when the dragon reserve was his home. It was a bit sobering to realize that even Voldemort's most loyal followers were forced to make sacrifices for the war.

Sometime in the midst of Charlie's response, Bill slipped quietly from the room, unnoticed by all except Peter. 

 

* * * * *

 

Sirius Black dipped his quill into a pot of ink then elegantly signed his name. If there was one thing which gave away his pureblood status quicker than anything, it was his penmanship. He, like James, wrote in perfect calligraphy that was culturally required for all pureblood children to learn. He dotted his 'i's then laid down his quill, flicking his wand at the parchment to send it flying to Mad-Eye Moody.

Though Mad-Eye Moody was officially the head of the entire department, he had his own team, which consisted of the best in the Auror Department, in such a dire time. Glancing around the empty bull pen, Sirius noted with distaste that he was the only one of the team who remained. James was cooped up at Hogwarts for another few weeks while Frank and Alice Longbottom were held captive at the Burrow. Mad-Eye Moody had flat out refused to replace any of the team members until they were declared officially dead, even though the Auror Department could not afford such luxuries to be anything but their strongest. 

“Go home, Black,” barked Mad-Eye Moody, his magical eye spinning in every direction. He knew very well that Sirius would not be going home this evening, because Dumbledore had called an emergency Order meeting, but the pair of wizards had to maintain their appearances. “I want a fresh pair of eyes in the morning.” 

A year ago, just prior to James' capture, Sirius would have argued, and he would have been supported by three other voices. But as it was, Sirius was tired and alone. The past twelve months had been rough. On the war waged, and Voldemort was no closer to being stopped than he had been twenty years ago when he had risen to power.

Sirius surveyed his desk. It was predictably much more disorganized than the other three which stood empty, but that in itself was not unusual; if James were here, he would charm a warning sign on Sirius' desk to warn others away from the danger zone. Sirius sifted through the top few layers of parchment and decided that a fresh pair of eyes would be more suitable to study the blueprint of the Rookwood estate. The raid was only tentative, anyhow, so it was not something that he had to know before the next morning. He tapped his wand on the corner of his desk and muttered his password to wipe everything clean. This was the standard protocol whenever an Auror left his or her desk, even for as little as a trip to the toilets, but each Auror had his or her own flair to the procedure.

He pocketed his wand in his Auror-issued robes and waved to Mad-Eye Moody on his way out. He knew the wizard would soon follow him, but there was still time before the meeting with Dumbledore. They knew better than to leave at the same time, especially since Mad-Eye Moody was notorious for staying long after hours at the department.

Sirius got to the gate for the Auror department's personal floo connection and waited his turn to step inside. A flash of green flames, and he spun dizzily until he emerged out of the fireplace at Potter Manor. He dusted himself off, sirens ringing in his ear to announce his presence. He started to draw his wand, but Lily silenced the alarm from the doorway to the kitchen. He could hear voices behind her. He was not the first to arrive.

“Mad-Eye will be here shortly.”

Sirius crossed the lounge to embrace Lily in a quick hug before following her into the kitchen. She may have married James Potter, but she was a part of the larger family of the Marauders. The past twenty years had taught all of them a lot about death and love. They knew better, especially following James' capture a year prior, to take their time together for granted.

Potter Manor was similar to Grimmauld Place in that it was an ancestral home adorned with priceless magical artifacts. Unlike Sirius' place of residence, the Potter Manor was warm and full of bright energy. It was set in the countryside of Godric's Hollow, hidden from the local population by the misconception that the tiny cottage was the residence of a nice family of three. The Potters were happy to allow any of the muggles to believe this illusion. The grounds were as tightly protected as Hogwarts with the wards carefully constructed by the Order, though mostly by James and Remus, and the Manor itself was protected by the Fidelius Charm with Sirius as the Secret Keeper, though the majority of the wizarding community believed that position to belong to Dumbledore. Even as unoccupied as it was with all three residents currently at Hogwarts, it was one of the most protected homes in the entire country. 

There was a fresh meal upon the table, and enough food spread out to feed the entirety of the Order, not just those selected to meet this evening. James, Remus, and Professor McGonagall had already arrived, their Hogwarts duties pawned off onto other professors for the evening. Narcissa Malfoy was here, too, sitting in the seat next to the one in which Lily sat down. She nodded a greeting to Sirius as he sat down at the head of the table between James and Remus, barely turning her attention from her conversation with Professor McGonagall about standard laws of magical education.

“Where's Wormtail?” asked Sirius. He took the bowl of beans from James, scooping out a bit then handing it back. He continued to fill his plate. It was not often that he got to eat Lily's cooking while Hogwarts was in session. He was going to take advantage of it. Most of the time, he and Regulus were sentenced to fend for themselves, though the youngest Black heir was able ask Kreacher to cook for him. Sirius would not dare ask the house elf for any food, for fear that he would gladly poison the elder master. Kreacher had always hated Sirius as much as he had loved Regulus. 

“At the Burrow,” responded James, his voice low. “He got a patronus to your brother about an hour ago. He knows where Oliver's being held—in the cellars below the main house.” 

“That's new,” said Sirius. He shoved potatoes into his mouth and chewed slowly. The floo alarm rang, signaling the arrival of another Order member. Lily got up from the table to greet the newcomer. Sirius glanced up her as she left then turned back to James. “So that's why this meeting was called at such short notice?” 

James nodded, eyes narrowing at Snape as the Potions master followed Lily into the kitchen. There were a few empty seats around the table, including one on the other side of Remus, but Snape sat down next to Lucius. Sirius graciously accepted the proffered bread from Narcissa, spying bright red stains on the left sleeve of Snape's robes that were too in color light to be blood. 

“What happened to you,  _Snivellus_?” asked Sirius, fighting to keep the smile off his face. It was times such as this that Sirius thanked his strict pureblood upbringing. He had spent his entire childhood, until he was sixteen years old, neutralizing his emotions so that nothing ever broke free of his mask. The other Marauders could read him like a book, but that was not something they achieved until they entered their third year of Hogwarts. 

Snape glared down the table at Sirius, a purely loathing expression upon his face. His eyes flashed briefly to James and Lily then to Lucius and Narcissa. Sirius almost did not need him Snape explain; just putting Draco and Harry together—as well as Neville, if Sirius had to bet—was enough of an explanation.

“Exploding die,” said Snape curtly. “Hit a couple of my Slytherins in the hospital wing sometime last night. Miss Granger and Miss Weasley were covered in some type of unidentifiable red dye which was resistant to most spells. Of course, I wouldn't imagine anyone here would know anything about that...?” 

Snape knew who the culprits were, but the warning glint in Professor McGonagall's eyes suggested that he had been purposefully restrained. The location of Hermione and Ginny's attack did not go unnoticed by any member sitting at the table. They had not happened upon the die prank by accident. Neville, Harry, and Draco had purposefully attacked them to circumvent any information they may have collected regarding Ron Weasley. That was probably the only reason Professor McGonagall prevented Snape from punishing the trio of Gryffindors.

“C'mon,  _Snivellus_ , the only thing I concern myself with these days are Death Eaters and other miscellaneous bad guys the Ministry sends me after,” responded Sirius flippantly. He tore off a strip of the bread and bit into it in a canine-esque mannerism, grinning as Snape turned pointedly away from him. 

“I hope I did not keep you waiting too long,” greeted Dumbledore. On either side of him stood Regulus Black and Percy Weasley. He strolled to the head of the table opposite Sirius and sat down. Silently the other two wizards sat as well. “I told Alastor to bring along two newer members of the Order as I believe they will be of great help to us.” 

“Are you sure that is wise, Albus?” questioned Professor McGonagall. She peered sharply at him. Though she respected her mentor immensely, but she was not afraid of challenging him.

“I trust Mad-Eye's judgment with my life,” said Dumbledore. “He recommended Nymphadora Tonks and Kingsley Shacklebolt. Both excellent Aurors, as each of you may be aware. They shall be along soon, I suspect.” 

Immediately, the door behind Dumbledore opened, and Mad-Eye Moody hobbled inside the kitchen on his wooden leg. His magical eye spun in every direction as he took the seat beside Dumbledore. He tapped the empty glass in front of him, filling it with water that he quickly drank. A short witch with spiky bubblegum pink hair tripped over Mad-Eye's chair, hair flashing a brief vibrant purple as she lowered fell into the chair next to him. She looked unabashed, as if she were used to tripping over anything in her path. The tall black wizard trailing after her shook his head in amusement as he took the final empty seat between Remus and Lucius that should have been filled with Peter.

“I hate to rush introductions, but we have been presented with a window of opportunity that we must not take for granted,” said Dumbledore, and all other side conversations came to an abrupt halt. All eyes were on the Minister for Magic, who was the great leader of the Order of the Phoenix. “For those who may not know, Oliver Wood was recently taken capture by the Death Eaters while he was on a mission to scout the Burrow. I have managed to transplant a spy into the highest folds of the Death Eater circle in order to ascertain the location of Mister Wood and of Frank and Alice Longbottom. My source informs me that these prisoners are kept in a cellar beneath the Burrow itself and that they are personally seen to by Voldemort's greatest interrogators: the eldest two Weasley sons, Bill and Charlie. From past experience, I estimate we have about another twenty-four hours before these prisoners are moved to a different unidentified location. It is, therefore, pertinent that we act as quickly as possible, for I fear this may be our only chance.” 

Mad-Eye surveyed the room. While his magical eye spun in all directions, his normal eye rested upon Percy Weasley, who sat slouched in his chair. He had thought highly of Percy Weasley since he had first heard word that a Weasley son was ushered into the tall Gryffindor Tower instead of stowed away in the dungeon of the snakes. Mad-Eye Moody had fought hard to convince Percy and Oliver Wood to join the Auror Department following graduation; the pair could have rivaled James Potter and Sirius Black. Both, though, had refused. Oliver belonged on the quidditch pitch and Percy in the Minister for Magic's personal office. Knowing this, Mad-Eye relented and trained the pair instead for work in the Order of the Phoenix. Now, he was presented with the idea that even training them for the Order had been a fatal mistake. 

“The plan is simple,” said Mad-Eye Moody in his rough, growling voice. He swore silently to himself that the next time an Order meeting was called, Oliver Wood would be sitting next to Percy instead of Regulus and Professor McGonagall. “We send two teams in—one to distract and the other to rescue. I figure we can get eight people inside of the actual wards. Team One, that'll be Tonks, Kingsley, Lupin, and myself. We're the distraction. Team Two—the rescue—will be Black, Black, Evans Potter, and Potter.” 

“What about me?” demanded Percy.

“You're a wild wand, Weasley,” growled Mad-Eye Moody. “Constant vigilance, you haven't it. You'll get yourself killed or, worse, captured.” 

Folding his arms across his chest, Percy glared at Mad-Eye Moody in a manner reminiscent of the Weasley family from whom he had walked away. He saw red, the fiery red of his hair, and felt a spark of rebellion that his younger twin siblings enjoyed to flaunt. He shook his head saying, “I'm going in whether you say I can or not. That's Oliver in there, and I'm the reason he got captured. So don't you  _dare_  believe I won't break in myself. I grew up in that hell. I know all the secrets there are to know about that property. My blood, if nothing else, will ensure that I get in.” 

“Weasley, this isn't a debate. You're not—” 

“There is a third team,” interrupted Dumbledore. The glare dropped from Percy's face as he turned to the Minister hopefully. “Its mere purpose is to patrol the wards; however, it will also be deployed in the case of an emergency. That, Mister Weasley, is where you will be with myself and Narcissa.” 

Percy was not completely satisfied, but he knew that was the closest he was going to get to the rescue mission. On some level, he recognized the stupidity of entering the Weasley wards. He, as far as the Weasleys were concerned, was just as wanted as Dumbledore himself; nobody walked away from the family. Percy had not only escaped their lifestyle but had also joined the crusade against it.

As Dumbledore and Mad-Eye Moody continued to give orders regarding the rescue mission, Percy glanced around the table. They were specifically addressed to the first team so he comfortably tuned them out as he thought about how many times the spots around the table had been replaced. He had only officially been with the Order since the day he graduated Hogwarts nearly four years prior, but he could name a range of witches and wizards who had once constituted the Order's inner circle. He shuddered to think how many more could be missing in a year's time.


	5. Loyal Spy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Weasley brothers disobey an order. Snape takes a nap in the cellars. Ginny has a hot coin. Remus tries diplomacy.

Peter stood resolutely in front of the Dark Lord, using every ounce of his willpower to sustain his occlumency shield. He was practiced at the art and had been taught by the great Albus Dumbledore himself, but his delicate position required a strong front. The Dark Lord did not know his most loyal spy was unwaveringly loyal to his enemy instead. Peter played his part well in the war. He could only hope that such a streak could be maintained until the downfall of such evil. After twenty years, he could finally see the light at the end which signaled the Dark Lord's impending defeat. He could feel it in his bones. 

The Dark Lord was seated in front of him, the snake Nagini curled up at his feet. On either side of Peter were the Dark Lord's lieutenants—Molly and Arthur Weasley and Severus Snape. The most dangerous was Snape. He was just as faithful to Dumbledore as Peter himself was. In the meeting room of the Burrow, neither wizard acknowledged each other's presence. The pair had allowed their infamous Hogwarts-aged hatred of each other to appear as if it had carried on beyond graduation. To the Dark Lord, they were only united through their service to him. 

“Tell me, Wormtail,” prompted the Dark Lord, his voice as icy cold as the room in which they were gathered. There was a beat of silence. Peter could almost hear the screams of the prisoners held in the cellars beneath his feet, and he felt bile rush up his throat. “What is Minerva McGonagall's school protecting?” 

“A wizard, m'lord,” said Peter. The situation was dire, but he was prepared. He had briefly met with Dumbledore earlier so he knew exactly what to say. The next move of the Order rested upon his performance. Eighteen years ago, he may have trembled at the mere idea of stating such a bold-faced lie to such a powerful wizard; however, the Dark Lord had lost his fear factor the night he attacked Lily and James Potter. “They say he comes from a world similar to this and that his name... well, m'lord, his name is Ron Weasley.” 

Molly gasped, releasing a soft shriek of disbelief. Next to her, Arthur wrapped his arm around his wife as he stared disbelievingly at Peter. The spy was careful to keep his expression blank. He felt a tickle against his occlumency shield and tightened his hold upon it. He could not allow it to slip now when the next few hours depended so intimately upon the Dark Lord's ignorance.

“That's impossible,” breathed the Dark Lord. He sat straighter in his chair, eyes flashing to the Weasley matriarch. Nobody spoke. Nagini, sensing her master's unease, perked up her head. He petted her as he recalled the cold February night which bled into March over eighteen years ago. He had personally seen to it that the baby did not live, because no matter how faithful Molly and Arthur Weasley were, Arthur had failed to get rid of the Longbottoms. The repercussions for such a failure could have been nothing but harsh. “Tell me more.” 

“There's not much more to tell, m'lord,” said Peter. His voice did not quake, though he could feel anger roll off the Dark Lord in waves. He remained the loyal servant passing news to his master. He knew the risks of playing his part and mentally prepared himself. “The wizard has been kept under strict observation by the mediwitch, and McGonagall has sealed the hospital wing from visitors.” 

The Dark Lord's wand was out quick as a whip, and a flash of red light struck Peter square in his chest. Pain erupted in his body and pulsated through every fiber, but this was not the first time he had experienced the Dark Lord's wrath. He struggled to maintain the occlumency shield as he bit his tongue to keep from crying out. Screaming was for the prisoners, for those too weak to serve the Dark Lord, not for the followers in his inner circle. It was a lesson he had learned quickly, even before his loyalties swayed. As quickly as the attack came, it was gone. He crouched on the floor, breathing heavily and wondering when he had fallen to his knees.

“Severus,” called the Dark Lord, his voice shrill against the eerie silence of the house. It was broken only by the faint screams from the cellars below. Someone, probably one of the Weasley boys, was tending to the prisoners. “What information do you have to add?” 

For a beat, Snape said nothing. His gaze rested neutrally upon Peter, who shakily picked himself up off the floor. He stretched out his mind to assess Peter's shield—because the last thing the Order needed was even the tiniest faults—but it was sound. His eyes flashed to Arthur and Molly Weasley as he finally responded, “The wizard claims that he comes from an alternate universe where a grand scale battle was staged at Hogwarts. From what I have gathered, some type of ancient magic has brought him to this world, but I regret to say that I am not well-versed upon theories of alternate universes.” 

The Dark Lord studied Snape for a long moment, considering the spy's information. He slowly petted Nagini's head. An explosion shook the entire building and sent puffs of dirt and dust billowing into the air. He sprang up. The Death Eaters stood instantly as well, fingers curling around their wands. The world seemed to hang suspended in time for a moment. Peter and Snape met each other's eyes briefly, and between them passed a mutual sense of satisfaction. The Order had acted. 

A second explosion rocked the foundation, and the Dark Lord barked orders to his most trusted Death Eaters. Molly dashed from the room, heading for the floo network when Apparation proved impossible. There were not enough Death Eaters currently occupying the Burrow property to properly hold off a full-on assault from the Order, even with the wards which protected it. Arthur, Peter, and Snape piled out of the meeting room. Nagini slithered after them, returning to her safe place in the kitchen under the sink. Bill appeared from the cellar, joining his siblings in the sitting room.

“They're after for the prisoners. Guard them well,” ordered the Dark Lord. “I shall send Bellatrix to attend to them.” 

The group parted as the Dark Lord disappeared into a black cloud of smoke. Arthur personally led the first line of defense on the property outside. Bill rushed after him, wand raised high above his head as his heart pounded in his chest. There was an eerie silence, broken only by the sound of the teams footsteps against the lawn. On either side of him was Fred and Peter, but Bill was soon dispatched with his brother to protect the orchard on the back side of the property. He found it unnerving to have only one twin trailing after him, because Fred and George had spent the majority of their lives together.

The air became hot with magic as the Order and the Death Eaters clashed. Bill fought instinctively, relying on every bit of his training as a curse breaker to execute complex spells. A streak of bubblegum pink fired off a series of curses. Bill threw up a shield, recognizing the witch as Nymphadora Tonks. He almost faltered at his recognition but growing up as the eldest son of the prestigious Weasley family had skilled him in the art of shoving aside his emotions. Tonks may have once almost led Charlie Weasley astray, but she was nothing to them anymore beyond a faceless enemy against the Cause. He threw a jinx in her direction. It bounced harmlessly off an invisible barrier.

Bill ducked behind a large tree as a fizzing spell flew his direction. It shattered against the trunk, filling the air with splintered bark. He waited a beat then peered around the corner, aiming his wand carefully at Remus Lupin, but the werewolf was among the most skilled fighters outside of the Auror Department. Remus fired a curse back at him, striking Bill in the shoulder. Red hot blood poured down his arm. He winced, leaning behind the tree as he tried to stanch the bleeding. 

A battle cry sounded, signaling the arrival of reinforcements. Molly had managed to reach the Lestrange Manor. Bill peeked around the tree, grinning with relief as he spotted Rookwood and Dolohov dashing across the garden from the back door of the Burrow. The odds had to be turning in the Dark Lord's favor. He had helped design the wards to the Burrow himself and knew that, even with Dumbledore's personal aid, the Order could only have gotten a few people onto the protected grounds.

All around him crackled with magic as Remus and Tonks fought side-by-side against the pair of Death Eaters. As Bill finished patching his wound, he glanced around the battlefield to search desperately for Fred. His older brother instincts were in overdrive. No matter how many times his younger siblings were dispatched by the Dark Lord, he still worried about them. Family was everything to the Weasleys. He had been old enough back in 1980 to vaguely remember that awful night at the end of February and how his mother sobbed violently into the early hours of March as she mourned the death of her son who would never grow up. He had vowed then and there as a small nine-year-old with the heavy responsibility of the eldest sibling to never again witness his mother go through such a tragedy.

By the time he spotted Fred, it was too late. He watched in horror as a bright green light ricocheted off Tonks' blasting curse and soared toward Fred, who stared immobilized at his imminent death. Bill could not move fast enough, terror gripping him as he thrust his wand forward as his mind raced for a spell—any spell—to save him.

But the move was needless. A dark streak seemingly appeared out of nowhere, tackling Fred to the ground a mere second before the green light could impact. The pair tumbled across the lawn as the battle waged on around them. Fred grimaced as his elbow skimmed a sharp rock, sliding to a halt. He shook himself to lessen the pain of the sudden fall, a gracious 'thank you' upon his lips for his savior, but when he looked up to identify the streak of black, his voice caught in his throat. Percy Weasley, horn-rimmed glasses setting askew upon his large Weasley nose, stared back at him.

“Did you just...?” Fred asked, his voice rough as it trailed off into nothingness. He swallowed the spit gathering in mouth. For the first time since he was fifteen, he felt a rush of fear for his estranged brother. He remembered the Dark Lord's command to kill the Weasley who was naïve enough to get away, but he made no move for his wand.

“Get out of here,” commanded Bill, towering over the pair. Percy glanced up at his eldest brother, a split second of fear appearing upon his dirtied face. Bill grabbed a handful of his robes and hauled him to his feet. He knew why Percy was there; he had watched from his childhood bedroom window as Oliver threw the tiny portkey at Percy to get him to safety. The Dark Lord's earlier order echoed loudly in his mind, and Bill swallowed against the nausea that built up inside of him. He was thankful that he had been assigned to the grounds instead of the house. “Perce, listen—it's too late. Get out of here before someone recognizes you.” 

Percy shook his head, Weasley stubbornness shining through, as he said, “You can go to hell, Bill. I'm not leaving without Oliver.” 

Wincing, Bill wished the world was an entirely different place, one in which he was not fighting against his younger brother—against the very same younger brother who used to crawl into his bed late after nightmares had frightened the tiny child awake. But Bill knew that was impossible. Percy had made his choice nearly five years ago when he had shown up on the Woods' front step with all of his possessions hastily packed into his suitcase. There was no turning back the hands of time, but Bill's elder brother instincts kicked in again. He knew his mother, as well as the entire family, would mourn Percy's death. That was not a burden which he wanted to force his family to carry. 

So Bill pulled out a tiny origami crane from the pocket of his robes and tapped it with his wand. He thrust it into Percy's hands, saying, “Don't come back for him, Perce. Keep yourself safe—you're the bravest of us all,” and sent him whirling to the safety to the outer wards of the quaint home of Andromeda Tonks. Given the current situation, that was the best choice he had to save his younger brother's life. He stared at the empty space from where Percy, glaring indignantly at him as realization struck, had disappeared. He sighed, long and drawn out, then turned back to the battle with Fred by his side. 

 

 * * * * *

 

Downstairs in the cellars beneath the Burrow, Snape crept along the shadows with his wand held out in front of him. This was always his least favorite part of playing the spy—seemingly fighting alongside the Dark Lord. He had perfected the ability to cast carefully aimed spells, no less harsh than those of a typical Death Eater, just inches from his desired target in order to give the illusion that his opponent was always a second quicker than he. He hated war, the bloodshed of it all. Hated skirting around the inner circles of the enemy knowing that one wrong move would result in his own death or, worse, the death of those he was trying to protect. Hated it, but did it anyway, because it was much better than the alternative. Because he had made a promise the night he graduated Hogwarts. 

He froze at the sight with which he was met as he turned the corner. At the end of the corridor, the cell door was opened. Bellatrix stood over the prisoner, a burly wizard who was weakened and bleeding from a nasty gash across his temple. Her high-pitched laughter echoed in the damp dungeon, red light dancing from the end of her wand. Oliver Wood twisted in his chair, writhing against his bonds under the influence of the excruciating pain of the Cruciatus Curse. Briefly, Snape's spy persona slipped, his fingers itching to use his wand to blast Bellatrix away from Oliver. But then she looked up at him, meeting his dark eyes, and grinned manically. Recalling the part which he played in it all, his mask returned.

He strolled farther along the shadows, keeping an eye out for the Order's second team. Above him, footsteps pounded across the floor to the cellar door. Team Two had arrived, and he knew the tricky part was about to commence. He turned toward the stairs, watching as James and Sirius surveyed the cellars with their wands stretched out in front of them. Snape waited a beat until James turned to meet his eyes. James blinked, the minute gesture cueing Snape into action. He nodded once, curtly, and turned on his heel as if he had not seen the pair of Order members. He took one step then two before a redheaded witch stepped out of the doorway of the nearby empty cell. Lily Evans Potter touched the tip of her wand to Snape's chest. Behind her, Regulus, the almost-spitting image of his elder brother, brandished his wand at Snape as well. His steely gaze was cold, but Snape had worked with the Black brothers enough to know that Regulus, like Sirius, enjoyed the thrill of putting everything on the line. 

“The Dark Lord's gone,” murmured Snape, barely moving his lips.

In the corridor behind him, Sirius and James had run into their first opponents, George Weasley and Lee Jordan. The dim corridor became animated with varying colors as spells flew through the air. A sharp cry echoed, but Snape could not identify its owner. Regulus and Lily paused for a brief moment, sharing a look, before retuning turning back to Snape. Two flashes of light, and he fell to the corridor floor. The last thing he saw before his vision faded to darkness was the merciful jet of green light shooting from Bellatrix's wand.

 

* * * * *

 

Ginny laced up her shoes, glaring at the red stain on her laces. No matter how many cleaning spells she had performed on her clothes, she still managed to discover more red ink. She grabbed her wand off her bed, untangling it from her quidditch robes, and muttered the only spell which seemed to have any effect. The red dye faded to pink before disappearing completely.

“It had to be Potter,” said Hermione, gazing upon her friend from the doorway to the sixth year girls' dormitory. Her own dormitory was the next door down. When she was eleven, she had begged Molly and Arthur Weasley to keep her at the Burrow for another year so that she and Ginny could start together; however, they had refused, knowing that shy, little Hermione would have three older brothers to look after her, even if two of those older brothers were in the form of the twins and the other one was Percy. “He must have been hidden under that cloak of his.” 

“That doesn't immediately mean it was Potter. It could have been his two lackeys. Longbottom was the one who nicked Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder from your trunk last June,” Ginny reminded her. “Nearly got Charlie killed, too, remember? The Order penetrated the wards at the Burrow and snatched James Potter without anyone being seen.” 

Hermione grimaced at the memory. The Dark Lord had been nothing short of angry at the loss of the most valuable prisoner. Though James Potter had refused to spill any Order secrets, even under the most brutal interrogation techniques, his imprisonment had served to dampen the Order's spirits and to shake the entire Auror Department. The capture of Frank and Alice Longbottom had a similar affect upon the enemies of the Dark Lord. 

Ginny shoved her wand into the pocket of her robes, slinging her book bag over her shoulder, and followed Hermione out of the dormitory. The common room was mostly empty, as most students were up in the Great Hall for breakfast. The stone door swung shut behind them as they left the Slytherin Dungeon.

“Regardless, you know what this means, don't you?” asked Hermione. At Ginny's blank stare, she sighed. “ _Someone_ close to the Order doesn't want us talking to the patient, and if Charlie's right—if this wizard really is  _Ron Weasley_  then I want to talk to him. This wizard claims to be your dead brother. Doesn't that bother you?” 

The witches strolled along, climbing the stairs as they neared the Great Hall. Ginny did not have a response for Hermione. She shoved her hands into the pockets of her robes, her fingers brushing against a warm coin. She gasped as she pulled out the enchanted coin. A single word was magically engraved against the gold:  _mirror_. Glancing around them, she spotted a spare classroom. She ducked inside. Hermione trailed after her, brandishing her wand to secure the room. Ginny dug the mirror out of her school bag and held it up. 

“The Fair Red Queen of Snakes to the Outskirts of the Otters.” 

Instantly, Charlie's face appeared in the mirror. He looked exhausted, bag under his eyes, hair sticking up in all directions. Dried blood trailed down his face from a gash across his cheek. Fear gripped Ginny as she spotted the wrecked remains of the sitting room of the Burrow. They had been attacked. 

“Is it safe?” demanded Charlie. Ginny and Hermione shot him identical affronted looks. It was insulting that he even doubted their competency. They had grown up as children of Death Eaters. Being secretive was ingrained in them. He blinked, unabashed. “The Order instigated a rescue mission yesterday evening with unfortunate success. The cellars are empty, half collapsed in. That's going to take some serious repair. Peter's blasting curse packed a mean punch, about killed Lily Evans Potter and Regulus Black by the mere force of it. Unfortunately didn't. One of our own bloody curses nearly killed Fred, but Bill says he got to him just in time. One of the prisoners—Wood—was killed before the Order managed to storm the cellars so that's something. Dad's got a pretty mean scratch down his right arm. Mum's fine—” 

“Charlie, you're rambling,” interrupted Hermione. There was a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. Charlie was not a wizard of many words. The tone of his voice, a mixture of relief and remorse that should never intermingle, set her nerves upon end. She burned with the desire to know the truth which he seemed inclined to delay. “Who's dead?” 

“Lee. He and George were caught off-guard. Somehow the Order managed to knock out Snape and slip past him. Probably Sirius Black, maybe James Potter, hit Lee with some kind of curse. Not sure what kind, but it, er, did the job. The twins are pretty shaken up, especially Fred.” 

Ginny sighed sadly. She hated the solace she felt that none of her siblings had been killed, because it left the unsavory taste of guilt in the back of her mouth. The Weasleys were a prominent family, but, more than that, they were a large family. She lived in an almost constant state of fear that the day she would bury one of her brothers was drawing uncomfortably nearer. As long as there were those who resisted the Dark Lord, on the war would rage, and the Weasleys would continue to fight.

“What are our orders?” asked Hermione, ever the practical witch.

“The Dark Lord is angry. He wants to know everything there is about the wizard in the hospital wing who claims to be a Weasley and soon. Don't worry so much about the rest of us. Dad's managed to convince him that not even the strongest wards can keep Dumbledore out so he's relocated to the Lestrange Manor,” Charlie assured them. From somewhere in the house, Bill called his name. “Look, I've got to go, but keep the mirror on you, yeah?” 

Charlie was gone from the mirror instantly, leaving Ginny and Hermione to stare at their own reflections. The classroom was quiet, broken only by erratic footsteps outside in the corridor. Hermione muttered a time spell, grimacing at the reading. Breakfast would be over in ten minutes. Any attempt to carry out the Dark Lord's orders would have to wait until after classes were completed that day.

Ginny tucked the mirror back into her bag, following Hermione into the corridor. They trekked to the Great Hall, up only a couple flights of stairs from the abandoned classroom. Nott and Blaise Zabini were already seated in their usual spots at the Slytherin table. Ginny dropped into a seat across from Nott, preferring it over the one next to Blaise who was all elbows at meal times.

As she began to pile her plate with food, she stole a glance at the High Table. Only a few professors remained in the Great Hall, as many had already eaten and then left to prepare for the first class of the day. Professor Grubbly-Plank was on the far end of the table next to the Gryffindors in a place usually reserved for Professor Hagrid, but the latter had taken a year's sabbatical to chase after Madam Maxime from the Beauxbatons Academy in France, or so the story went. Professor Lupin sat two seats down from his usual spot to sit next to Professor Potter, in a spot that was normally reserved for Professor Evans Potter. Ginny noticed the white gauze which was wrapped around Professor Potter's right hand that made him look every bit the Auror he actually was. Her gaze flashed to a long scratch down Professor Lupin's face. 

“Do you notice anything odd?” she muttered to Hermione. The seventh year witch glanced up at the High Table, eyes narrowing calculatingly. She nodded minutely as she took a small bite of eggs. “Wonder where Professor Evans Potter is?” 

“Haven't you heard?” cut in Blaise, shamelessly eavesdropping on their conversation. His dark brown eyes flashed between the pair as he waited for them to either catch onto what he was saying or admit they were clueless. “All charms classes are cancelled for today—Professor Evans Potter is apparently too sick to teach.” 

“Too hurt, is more like it,” corrected Nott through a mouthful of toast. He chewed a bit, rolling his eyes at the looks of identical disgust written across the faces of his friends, then swallowed. He took a quick drink of his pumpkin juice to wash down the food. “I overheard McGonagall ask Potter earlier how she was recovering. And have you seen the state of Potter and Lupin? They look like they've gone three rounds with that oaf Hagrid's Blast-Ended-Skrewts and lost, naturally.” 

Ginny and Hermione exchanged looks, silently recalling their conversation with Charlie only a few minutes prior. Neither said anything to Nott or Blaise—the business of the Burrow belonged to the Weasleys alone—but as Pansy and Daphne joined them at the Slytherin table, the wizards happily accepted a change in the conversation.

Ginny glanced over her shoulder at the Gryffindor table, noting the conspicuous absence of Harry Potter. But she quickly remembered, as her search for Draco Malfoy and Neville Longbottom came up short, how close Harry was to his parents, something which was obvious to even a Slytherin. No matter, though, because her primary focus was not of the antics of future Order members, of future real-world enemies, but rather placed upon the mysterious Ron Weasley who may or may not be one in the same with the dead brother she never met. 

 

* * * * *

 

The back room in hospital wing at Hogwarts was fuller than usual, as the Order had been forced to use it as their infirmary following the mostly successful raid on the Burrow. Lily blinked back into consciousness, acutely aware of the pain radiating from her lower right leg. The explosion in the cellar had severely compromised the house's foundation and blasted a concrete wall to pieces. Neither she nor Regulus had been able to get avoid getting pinned under the rubble. It had been nightmarish, her leg bent in an awkward position between two large rocks, but she had kept her wits about her enough to drag herself out of the wreckage.

With a little help, she and Regulus had managed to stumble down the corridor but horror filled her being as she realized they were too late. Oliver Wood slouched unmoving in his chair, held up only by the ropes binding him to his chair. The tips of his once stunning dark hair were tinged white, the after effect of the numerous  _Cruciatus_ curses to which he had been subjected. Bellatrix had long fled—there was no use in guarding a dead prisoner—but Lily still kept an eye out for any Death Eaters in the vicinity, a lethal curse ready upon her lips. Regulus unbound Oliver, gently supporting the dead wizard's weight, and pulled out the portkey. He sent a spark of blue lights up the corridor and was answered, almost immediately, by an identical set of sparks. The mission was completed. All that was left was to retreat so Regulus activated the portkey, thrusting it toward Lily who touched it at the last moment.

They had been transported to Professor McGonagall's tiny cottage on the edge of Hogsmeade Village, one of the numerous Order safe houses, where the headmistress herself awaited them. Lily did not recall much beyond landing in the cozy lounge of the cottage, barely registering Professor McGonagall's gasp as the witch spied the lifeless body to which Regulus clung. The moment Lily's feet touched the soft carpet, the adrenaline fled from her body and red hot pain traveled up her injured leg. She fell to the floor, darkness overtaking her. 

“Looks who's finally awake.” 

The grinning face of Sirius Black towered over her. He looked beaten up, a dark bruise coloring his left jaw and a bandage disappearing under the fabric of Auror-issued robes, but looked otherwise unscathed from the skirmish. His shoulder-length black hair was tied back into an elastic band, strands of it spilling out over his gray eyes. Lily had the fleeting question of why he in the hospital wing at Hogwarts instead of the Auror bullpen at the Ministry, but a movement to her left alerted her to the presence of Mad-Eye Moody. He sat between a pair of beds, gazing upon his rescued Aurors with a remorseful expression on his rough face. Lily doubted either Mad-Eye or Sirius would have gotten much work finished at the Ministry that day.

Both Alice and Frank looked in better shape than Lily had expected. She recalled James' rescue the summer prior and remembered how he had been so bloodied that Sirius had chokingly wondered whether his skin would be permanently stained red. Frank and Alice, on the other hand, looked no worse off than Lily herself felt. She knew that was because they had been cleaned up in the hours that had passed since the rescue and that they had been thoroughly treated by Madam Pomfrey. All things considered, to have been held captive by Voldemort for over a week, the Longbottoms were in good shape. Lily would be surprised if they were not elbowing back into the Auror department within a couple of weeks, regardless of Mad-Eye Moody's insistence otherwise. 

“Andy's keeping an eye on Percy,” said Sirius, and it took Lily a moment to realize that he had been speaking nonstop since she had awoken. She hoped she did not miss anything important. “Dumbledore wants him moved at soon as possible, but Andy slipped some dreamless sleep potion into his firewhiskey; maybe not the greatest combination, but, you know... The wizard was in fits, quite naturally. I—er, I accompanied Dumbledore to inform the Woods'. Hardest damn thing I've ever done in my life. I'd quite redo my entire Auror training three times than have to console Mrs. Wood over the death of her heroic son. Hell, if Percy doesn't get himself together, I may have to visit her again. I'm not sure who that'll kill first—me for having to repeat this or her for losing her final son.” 

“When's his service?” asked Lily. She had always liked Oliver, had watched him grow up within the Order. He had trailed after her and Remus on his first official mission, learning everything he could from them. He had shined as an agent for the Order and had graciously balanced his duties to the war with his job as a professional quidditch player. What she admired the most was his fierce protectiveness over those to whom he was loyal, namely to Percy.

“Saturday. It'll be just a simple service. He'll be posthumously awarded. We've got a body this time so...” 

“Can ya keep your voice down, Sirius?” groaned Regulus from the bed opposite Lily's. He leaned up on his elbows, blinking his gray eyes at his elder brother with a look of annoyance written across his aristocratic face. His left shoulder was covered in a bandage. There was a gash on his neck which was covered with some type of blue topical healing potion. The bags under his eyes suggested he was as exhausted as Lily herself felt. When he dropped his gaze to meet her eyes, she glimpsed the cloudy storm brewing in his mind. She imagined he was having difficulty coming to terms with the Order's failure to save Oliver. But he was choosing to hide behind banter instead of facing it head on, a tactic which his elder brother was also known to employ. “It echoes, and I swear there's no tuning you out.” 

Sirius barked out a laugh, canine-like, and shot his younger brother a shameless grin. Regulus fell back to his bed, sighing in exasperation, but Lily thought she saw a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. She envied the brothers' relationship, wishing she was half as close with her own sister as they were too each other. The Black brothers had not always seen eye-to-eye, though. Sirius had rebelled against his parents' belief in the dark arts from an early age. Once he was out, having run to the Potters when he was sixteen, he spent a few of years hating Regulus for not being brave enough to get out as well. Then Regulus was given his worst nightmare of a task by Voldemort: to kill his own brother. He had almost done it back in eight-two, but Black blood was thick and much stronger than any ties to the dark arts. So Regulus had, instead, blown up the Crouch Manor, exposing the prominent family as supporters of Voldemort, and stormed, head raised high, to the Auror Department of the Ministry of Magic in search of his brother. After a rather heated argument in which neither brother was willing to admit that the blame rested on both sides, he and Sirius had been close ever since.

“Try keeping him quiet on a mission,” said a weak voice, and Lily thought it was one of the greatest sounds she had ever heard. She looked over to see Frank looking between the brothers with an expression of amusement upon his face. There was a long healing scar running from the corner of his left eye. His skin was pasty, his hair thin, but he had an air of relief about him. He was one of the lucky ones—one of those the Order managed to save—and he would not take that for granted. “He once sneezed and set an entire den of dragons on us. I've still got the scar on my buttocks from the Hungarian Horntail's spiky tail.” 

“Dear, those scars aren't from the Horntail; they're from the manticore Sirius woke up when we were storming the supply house near Little Hangleton,” corrected Alice. She offered her husband a soft, teasing smile. Her nose had been broken, but Madam Pomfrey had fixed it back with only the slightest crook left in its wake. Her arms were covered in burns which were treated with a copious layer of green healing potion. She glanced over at Lily, winking one of her brown eyes. “Or do you not recall yanking the stinger out then nearly splinching yourself as you Apparated away?” 

“My point still stands, dearest. Most mishaps can be traced back to Sirius.” 

The wizard in question sighed, crossing his arms as he attempted to look affronted. The grin on his face belittled whatever annoyance he may have felt, because the Order had succeeded in saving Frank and Alice Longbottom. From his seat between the Longbottoms, Mad-Eye Moody huffed out a laugh, both eyes focused upon Sirius. 

“Never have I seen a wizard score so highly on the Stealth and Tracking portion of the Auror training yet have such problem with silence. I knew the day I signed you, Black, that you would be a handful. If you weren't so damned good, I'd ship back to the Puddlemere United meself.” 

“What can I say, Mad-Eye? I'm an anomaly.” 

Mad-Eye snorted, turning to address the Longbottoms though his magical eye followed Sirius as the wizard sat down on the foot of Lily's bed. Mad-Eye collected the standard information required for the Ministry then gradually bled the interview into information necessary for the Order. Sirius sat cross legged at Lily's feet, facing her. Behind him, Regulus snored softly as he fell back to sleep. Even the most resilient of wizards had difficulty fighting the effects of Madam Pomfrey's potions. 

“Harry, Draco, and Neville were here earlier, but Madam Pomfrey shooed them to classes. Reminds me of all the times she barred us from the hospital wing after full moons. Anyway, they'll be back this evening after quidditch practice. It's hard to believe that in just a few weeks those three will be on the front lines with us—whether we like it or not.” 

 Lily sighed. She dreaded the upcoming graduation, because she wanted to keep the three out of the war for as long as possible. That was a vain desire. Each of them were already intimately acquainted with the war's atrocities, having been raised as children of the Order and exposed to the dangers of evils even as eleven-year-olds. They had fought valiantly during Arthur Weasley's failed raid on Hogwarts just a few weeks prior. She knew they could handle themselves if the situation arose that they would need to do so, but the lifeless body of Oliver Wood was burned into her mind. She did not wish that fate upon anyone in the war, much less those recently out Hogwarts with their entire lives ahead of them. 

“Even harder to believe I'll be back on the front line,” said James from the doorway back to the main hospital wing. He was swamped by his official professor attire and his hair was even messier than usual, but when he met Lily's eyes, he grinned widely with a tinge of relief written across his face. He pushed his glasses up his nose as he strolled to her bed. Trailing after him, almost as an afterthought, were Remus Lupin and Peter Pettigrew.

“What the bloody hell are you doing here?” demanded Ron Weasley, wand pointed directly at Peter's back. Anger burnt brightly in his blue eyes, his posture ready to attack at any second. Peter froze, eyes widening. He turned slowly around with his hands thrown up in the universal sign of surrender. Ron flicked his wrist. Peter's wand soared through the air from the pocket of his trousers. 

James and Sirius sprang into action like the trained Aurors they were. Lily made to follow them, but Sirius pushed her back to the bed. The soft pain radiating in her leg was enough of a reason to sit this one out. For a moment, Ron faltered as his eyes darted between James and Lily, realization dawning upon him that he was no longer in his own universe. Yet he still kept a firm grip on his wand, because he had seen the glint in Wormtail's eyes at Malfoy Manor when his cursed hand had turned upon himself.

All around the tiny room, everyone was on alert. Regulus, startled from his sleep, threw his legs off the bed and stumbled into an upright position. He held his wand steadily, but he leaned heavily against his bed to support his weight. Frank and Alice sat tentatively upright, their wands held tightly in their grasps though the mere energy required for such a posture was almost more than any had to spare. Between the Longbottoms, Mad-Eye Moody's magical eye focused upon the angry redheaded wizard. Remus cautiously stepped forward, the only in the room other than Peter who was wandless.

“Mister Weasley, why don't you lower your wand? Maybe make this... a little more comfortable,” suggested Remus, his voice soft and soothing. He took another step forward, but Ron's wand twitched in his direction. He halted immediately, tensed. To his left, on the other side of Peter, James and Sirius poised themselves to attack, a spell ready upon both of their lips. 

“I don't want this to be  _comfortable_ ,” snarled Ron, blue eyes full of hatred. Remus was struck by how much he favored Percy Weasley with his tall and lanky figure. The fire in his eyes, however, was typical of the Weasley family. “After all he's done? He's a bloody traitor who's sold out Harry's parents and sentenced Sirius to rot in Azkaban prison! He's the bastard who resurrected Voldemort three years ago!” 

Peter blinked at Ron in horror. Once a long time ago, he had faithfully served Voldemort and fed him priceless information regarding the Order. He had been fresh out of Hogwarts and had itched to prove himself in the world when Voldemort had presented him with an offer he could not refuse. In exchange for his service, Voldemort promised him a position which would bring him prestige in the wizarding world. Peter had foolishly accepted the proposition, too blinded by his own desire to outshine those around him to realize that he had been played. For three years, he played his new role passionately until one evening in mid-November when James blasted into his tiny cubical at the news office with the wonderful news of Lily's pregnancy. Seeds of doubt regarding Peter's betrayal of his friends began to grow as the months flew by until the last day of July 1980 when he held in his arms a tiny baby named Harry who would always look up to him as an uncle.

That very night, after he left the new family to bask in the joy of Harry, he fled straight to the Headmaster's office at Hogwarts. His confession spewed from his mouth like vomit as he stepped out of the fireplace. The aged headmaster had listened with patience as he detailed every single moment of his service for Voldemort. He expected to be cursed down on the spot from the end of Dumbledore's angry wand, but the Headmaster merely waited until Peter had finished speaking to inform the wizard that he had suspected all along. Though Dumbledore said nothing of reprimand, Peter felt smaller than he had ever felt in his life as he spied the twinkle of disappointment shining behind the Headmaster's half-moon glasses. He sworn full loyalty to Dumbledore that night. By the next morning, he had returned to Voldemort as the newest spy for the Order.

“Resurrect Voldemort?” repeated Sirius, furrowing his eyebrows in confusion. “The bastard's got to die first! Besides, Wormtail's no more a follower of Voldemort than myself. Are you forgetting this world is not your own?”  

Remus shot Sirius a warning look as Ron's grip tightened on his wand. If Ron was anything like the Weasleys Remus knew, he would be able to handle himself in a duel. Nobody would be able to save Peter when the Weasley attacked. Whereas Sirius, and James to an extent, had little patience for diplomacy, Remus knew it was the only way out of the given situation without someone getting seriously injured. The Order could not afford to fight amongst itself.

“Are you implying that Voldemort has been beaten in the world from which you came?” the werewolf asked. Ron's eyes flashed to Remus. He nodded curtly then returned his full attention to Peter. Remus felt a surge of hope build up in his chest that he had not experienced since the Battle of the Department of Mysteries two summers prior, in which Voldemort's successful infiltration of the department had been overwhelmingly halted by only a handful of Order members.

“This bloke convinced Harry's parents to use him as a Secret-Keeper instead of Sirius and then informed on them to Voldemort. When Voldemort attack on Halloween night 1981, he killed Harry's parents, but Harry himself survived the killing curse. It bounced off him and killed Voldemort, only the wizard couldn't die—too many damned Horcruxes. So he remained without a body for thirteen years until  _Wormtail_  resurrected him like a faithful servant in ninety-five.” 

Peter slowly shook his head, realization dawning upon him at how close he had come to sentencing two of his best friends to death. It would have been easy for Peter to have followed that path, because it had been the hardest thing he had ever done to admit to his best friends that he had betrayed them for three years. He had told them within a couple of weeks of confessing to Dumbledore, wanting the other Marauders and Lily to hear the story from him. They had taken it better than Peter could have ever imagined: Remus, quiet and withdrawn; Sirius, biting words and spouting curses; James, loud and angry; Lily, fiercely protective and motherly reprimanding. For months, Peter had worked himself nearly to death to obtain their forgiveness until the following cold Christmas Eve night when a blotched attack on Rosier Manor had almost blown his cover. He had awoken a few days into the new year surrounded by the friends he had betrayed, and he had begun to understand that they had forgiven him almost immediately after he had told them, even Sirius who had the most trouble coming to terms with Peter's betrayal. 

“Damn, James. Doesn't matter what universe you're in, Voldemort's always targeting you,” commented Frank, voice weak though laced with amusement. He lay back against his pillow, loosening his grasp on his wand. Ron was no threat.

“It wasn't James he was after. It was Harry; he was the child of the prophecy,” responded Ron, glancing over Peter's shoulder to stare at Frank then Alice for a long moment. He recalled the Christmas in his own universe where his father had been hospitalized. He finally saw the weight which Neville carried upon his shoulders. Slowly realizing the only danger in the given situation was himself, Ron lowered his wand. Almost instantly, all the others were lowered as well. Ron tossed Peter his wand, offering no apology. 

“Prophecy?” parroted James, eyes widening as he glanced over at Lily, who was equally alarmed. “What prophecy?”


	6. The Familial Assignment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dumbledore has fancy jewelry. Fred surprises them all, even George. Neville threatens Draco.

Oliver's memorial was a quiet affair held in the garden of the Woods' estate. His teammates from Puddlemere United attended, as did almost the entirety of the Order. Percy sat front and center with Mr. and Mrs. Wood seated on either side of him. The tiny broken family clung tightly to one another as Dumbledore then Manager Deverill of Puddlemere United spoke highly of the fallen hero. Following the funeral, the Woods had ushered Percy home to mourn the loss of one son and celebrate the presence of the other. He would remain there for a few days, but any longer was dangerous. Then he would be moved to the safe house of Grimmauld Place. 

It had been three days since the successful rescue of Alice and Frank Longbottom from the cellars beneath the Burrow. The pair of Aurors was rapidly recovering, though Mad-Eye insisted they would not be able to return to full-time Auror duties until James' time was up as well. Both Lily and Regulus had returned to their work after a day spent under Madam Pomfrey's care. Life was slowly returning to the normalcy which had been absent for the past couple of weeks, yet on the war raged.

Peter, Snape, and Lucius spent twice as much time seemingly working for Voldemort as they usually did, as the Burrow had suffered devastating structural damage from the attack. Peter returned to the flat he shared with Remus tired and worn out every night but happily reported that Voldemort had temporarily relocated his residency to the Lestrange Manor. The Order had obtained a minor victory at the cost of Oliver's life; that was not something which would ever be forgotten.

That evening, long after the memorial, Sirius sat down at the head of the shrunken table in the basement kitchen at Grimmauld Place for an Order meeting. The Potters had hosted the previous one in their currently unoccupied Manor, but Grimmauld Place was closer to the memorial than it was so the Black brothers had offered their ancestral home. Regulus summoned Kreacher, who supplied the gathered members of the Inner Circle of the Order with bottles of firewhiskey. When the drink reached him a few moments later, Sirius had to admit that, regardless of the mutual hatred between he and the house elf, Kreacher had managed to procure some good liquor. Sirius threw back a shot, and it burned all the way down. He refilled his goblet before passing the bottle onto Remus, who sat to his left. The werewolf filled his own goblet only half full before he passed it to Peter.

“This evening we are gathered few in number,” announced Dumbledore. “We are in the midst of mourning and a time of rejoice, for we have lost as well as gained. I can happily announce that Frank and Alice Longbottom are seated amongst us once again.” He paused, allowing applause to fill in the kitchen for a few moments. His blue eyes surveyed the occupants through his half-moon glasses until he rested his gaze upon the redhead seated to his left. “Tonight we must discuss a matter that is of most secrecy, and for that reason, only a few select are gathered. Many of you are aware of the failed attack upon the Longbottoms eighteen years ago and of the drastic consequences which befell the Weasley family. Earlier this week, the impossible happened within Minerva's school—the youngest son to the Weasley family awakened in the hospital wing. This young man, Ron, is seated with us this evening.” 

Ron's face flooded red, matching his fiery hair, as everyone's attention shifted from Dumbledore to him. He had grown up as the Boy-Who-Lived's best friend and had experienced attention of such magnitude as an afterthought, turning upon him when Harry Potter was otherwise occupied. Even within his own family, the attention he received was scant, forced to share it with six other siblings. But as each of the Order members rested their gaze upon him, he longed for the anonymity he had fostered as the mere best friend of the Chosen One. Harry always seemed to know what to say or how to act; Hermione, even, knew how to handle such pressure. Ron had never been in the position to lead anything. He was struck with an intense desire to return to his own universe. 

“Right—well...” he stuttered, nearly trembling under the weight of the gazes. His mind flashed back to his sixth year when Harry had pretended to drop Felix Felicis into his morning pumpkin juice prior to his first game as Gryffindor keeper. He remembered the surge of determination which built up inside of him, and he desperately searched for a bit of that determination to help him now. “There was this battle, you see? Voldemort's last stand at Hogwarts. He was nearly beatable. Harry, Hermione, and I spent nearly a year searching down each of his Horcuxes and destroying them.” 

“Harry? As in my son Harry?” interrupted Lily, her eyes flashing worriedly at James. He reached for her hand and squeezed it comfortably. Ron watched the exchange between the married couple, wondering if this universe's James and Lily were anything like the ones who had died for their son. But he quickly decided they would be. The set of James' jaw, determined, was so eerily similar to Harry that, if he looked hard enough, Ron almost saw his best friend instead sitting between Lily and Sirius.

“Yeah. Only, well, you're dead in my world. Both of you, killed by Voldemort,” responded Ron, knowing they both recalled his brief explanation of their deaths a few days ago in the hospital wing. He paused for a moment as he collected his thoughts and determined how much would be prudent to tell them. Knowledge such as he held was dangerous in the wrong hands, even in this universe. "There was a prophecy. Er, I can't quote it all, but there was something about a child being born at the end of July to parents who had defied Voldemort three times." 

Vaguely, he wondered when he had reached the point of not caring to say Voldemort's name. Surely, it must have been sometime during the Final Battle when he had been a Thestral's hair's width away from death. Dead man was afforded no fear. There had been no guarantee that he would survive it—the deaths of Remus, Tonks, Fred, and even Snape had been testaments to that.

"It turned out to be Harry," he continued. He decided not to speak any more about the prophecy, because if it did not exist in this universe then the rest of it would do them no good to know every detail in regard to it. Instead, he turned the subject to the more important issue. “The brain of the whole operation was Hermione Granger. She's brilliant, and, in my world, she's one of the smartest Gryffindor you'll ever meet. Figured out how to search for the Horcruxes, she did.” 

“Horcruxes? That's how the bastard's staying alive?” roared Regulus, sitting forward, eyes wide. He glanced down the table, meeting Sirius' gaze. As the heirs to the once-prominent family of the dark arts, the brothers had been raised with the knowledge of ancient magics. These days, more Blacks fought against Voldemort than for him, but that did not change the fact that the Black heirs were familiar with the dark arts. “We've been fighting him for twenty years and have never had a damned shot of defeating him? How many of our own have died?! Died for nothing!” 

Ron grimaced at the ferocity of the younger Black's temper. He thought of the locket from his own universe and saw a likening of this Black's fervor which had saturated the note left with the fake Horcrux. Since Regulus had no prior knowledge of Voldemort's Horcruxes, and one glance at the wizard's left bare arm told Ron that he had never taken the Mark of Voldemort's followers, then Ron doubted Regulus had ever located the locket. He was still not certain, no matter what Dumbledore seemed inclined to believe, that the Horcruxes would be hidden in the same objects. Dread built up in his stomach. It was like starting all over again before the hunt for the Horcruxes, only this time neither the ring nor the diary had yet been destroyed. 

“We found six of them for sure, but there was still something... off about him during the battle,” continued Ron. “I reckon Voldemort, or at least the one from my world, had made another one. They're bloody difficult to destroy, you know. We used basilisk venom. Harry had killed one in second year with the Sword of Gryffindor.” 

“Do you think Horcruxes are one in the same here?” asked Lily, eyes darting to Dumbledore. She seemed to take the news of Harry's counterpart's escapade rather well, making Ron wonder just how similar her son was to his best friend. He looked at the four Marauders alive and well at the end of the table and realized his answer immediately.

Dumbledore peered at Ron, considering, over his half-moon glasses. He slowly dug in the pocket of his scarlet colored robes and pulled out a tiny ring, which he tossed onto the table. Ron's attention snapped to it, eyes narrowed at the object as recognition rapidly appeared on his face. It was the ring of which Harry had spoken. His gaze shot up to Dumbledore, silently confirming his familiarity with the object. 

“I believe now more than ever, Lily, that there is a strong possibility of their similarities,” said Dumbledore. The black ring lay innocuously on the table, devoid of any dark magic. After Ron had confirmed that Voldemort was indeed using Horcruxes, Dumbledore had searched through many ancient family records to locate the ancestral home which belonged to Tom Riddle, Jr.'s family. Traces of the dark magic emanated from the tiny ring, but its power was no match for Dumbledore's vast knowledge of the workings of magic. Now, the black ring was nothing more than a placeholder for a different type of magic more mystical than Voldemort could ever appreciate.

“That's good, then, right?” asked Sirius, grinning at the Minister. His face was eager and certainly less lined that Ron ever remembered his counterpart's being. He was not exactly youthful, but he looked more of his own age. “We know where those blasted things are so we can find them and destroy them.” 

“Of course, but the problem is that they could be anywhere. We didn't exactly find them in permanent locations last time,” said Ron, tiredly. The idea of embarking on another hunt for Horcruxes was disheartening for him. It was like starting over. Only this time, neither Harry nor Hermione would be on this journey with him. A wave of homesickness washed over him. He missed the musty tent and falling asleep every night absolutely exhausted, whether mentally or physically, to the sound of his best friends' soft breathing in the beds next to him. He wondered where they were now, if time had continued to flow normally in the universe which he called home, and, if it did, whether they were looking for him or had declared him among the dead of the Battle of Hogwarts. This last thought left an unsatisfactory taste in the back of his mouth. “Look. It's not so simple to just say ' _Accio_ Horcrux!' and fix everything. It took the three of us  _months_  to track them all down—months of running from the law, hiding under spells, and sneaking around dangers.” 

“No offense, lad, but sneaking around dangers is my job,” responded Sirius flippantly, and Ron was struck by how carefree this man can be yet still carry the same determination the Sirius Black from his universe did. He had always believed the determination was a product of spending twelve years unjustly locked up in the wizard's hell on earth known as Azkaban prison, but he was wrong. Regardless of Sirius Black's past, he was wired with tenacity. “This is the best shot we've had at defeating Voldemort in twenty years. We'd be bloody mental not to take it.” 

There was a moment of silence. Around the table, the gathered considered the information regarding the Horcruxes, and, after prompted by Frank, were duly informed of what Dumbledore and Ron knew about the subject. Admittedly, Ron's knowledge was limited to the universe which he called home, but as he stared at the ring lying upon the table, he began to believe Dumbledore's claim a little more. If the Horcruxes were one in the same from his universe, then the Order had a fair shot at defeating Voldemort for the first time in a very long time.

Sitting at the Order meeting, a privilege with which his mother from his own universe would not be happy, Ron felt a spark of hope at returning to his own life. The greatest minds he knew were alive here—Dumbledore, Remus, Sirius, even Lily and James. If there was anybody who could ever help to send him home, he knew they were sitting at the table with him.

There was just the tiny issue of the on-going war. As much as he would rather not fight Voldemort again, he thought of Hermione following the Dark Lord and of Harry stepping up to take the reins of the war alongside his parents in just a few short weeks. It seemed no matter what universe or what incarnation there was of his friends that Ron would fight to save the world for them. He had already failed them once in his own universe, something which he loathed to admit. He would not fail them again. If that meant staying until Voldemort was defeated a second time, he would do so, and he would make sure that he saved Hermione. 

 

* * * * *

 

Ginny stared at the battered structure of her childhood home and sighed forlornly. The Burrow had taken severe damage from the skirmish a few days earlier, but the foundation had been secured by the combined efforts of Bill and Charlie. According to the two eldest brothers, it would take months to restore the integrity of the collapsed cellars, but the house itself, though beaten, was sound. Besides, there were always the cellars beneath the orchard which had served their purposes for many years prior to the completion of the cellars below the main house.

She had a knapsack thrown across her shoulder, and her wand was clutched in her hand. Next to her, Hermione had a similar arrangement. Hogwarts had permitted a day pass for the pair of them due to a loss in the family. Headmistress McGonagall had been in no position to deny such a pass for them, since she had granted a similar pass to Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy, and Neville Longbottom so they could attend a memorial as well.

Because the wards of the Burrow had been tightened following the Order's successful infiltration, general travel across the floo network had been disabled. Hermione and Ginny had, thus, traveled from the Headmistress' Office at Hogwarts to the Leaky Cauldron where Molly Weasley had personally retrieved them. Normally, the witches found comfort in returning home after so long away, but the air which hung over the entire place was stifling. Lee Jordan's death had hit the family hard. 

The only positive aspect of the entire ordeal was the absence of the Dark Lord. As Ginny and Hermione duly followed Molly into the Burrow, they both noticed the fresher atmosphere among the somber setting. A pot steamed above a fire, which smelled like the twins' favorite soup. A pair of needles knitted a shirt sleeve, suspended over the basket of yarn. Even Arthur, his thinning red hair disheveled, seemed to breathe a little easier without playing host. He sat in the old arm chair of the lounge reading  _The Daily Prophet_. He folded up the newspaper when he noticed his daughters.

“Any news from Hogwarts?” asked Arthur, and to an outsider, the statement could have been construed as simple curiosity of a father; however, Ginny and Hermione knew better. They had received orders from the Dark Lord to investigate the wizard who claimed to be a Weasley. Over the past couple of days, any attempt to breach the hospital wing had been efficiently stopped by a haze of protective spells courtesy of the Order. The infirmary was still closed off to the general population of students and would remain so until Monday morning.

“Professor Evans Potter returned to her duties yesterday,” supplied Ginny. She glanced at Hermione but knew that she should field the entirety of this response. Hermione hated to fail at anything and refused to discuss it whenever she did. “We haven't managed to make much headway with the hospital wing.” Arthur's even gaze faltered for a split second, revealing disappointment. Ginny grimaced, averting her own eyes as she felt the unfamiliar coil of failure in her stomach. It was like her first match as captain of the Slytherin quidditch team last year when she had led her team to a disastrous defeat against Harry Potter's Gryffindors. She may not have hated failure as much as Hermione did, but it left a bad taste in her mouth. “The Dark Lord will get his information.” 

“Make sure that he does,” said Arthur. There was a lithe to his tone which turned the somber atmosphere chilly. His eyes flickered toward the ceiling, and Ginny knew, with a sinking feeling in her chest, that he was recalling the incident at the end of February 1980 which had resulted in the ultimate consequence for the Weasley family.

“Are the twins in their old room?” asked Hermione. She was as desperate as Ginny to leave the uncomfortable lounge. Though they both loved Arthur dearly as their father, whether blood or assumed, the death of Lee was still fresh upon their minds. Neither had any desire to listen to a lament regarding a brother who was never given the opportunity to live. “We should get settled anyway so we'll check on them.” 

Arthur nodded briefly in recognition of her statement but otherwise was lost to his own anguished thoughts. Ginny followed Hermione up the rickety steps to the first floor where their shared bedroom was located. When Hermione had first come to live with the Weasleys, as a tiny orphaned four-year-old, she had been put into the same bedroom as Ginny to help the girl adjust. As the years flew by, they continued to share a room. It was not unusual in the house, anyhow. Bill and Charlie shared, as did the twins. Only Percy, the one who always seemed to, even as a young boy, not fit in with the rest of the family, kept his tiny bedroom to himself. Nobody ever spoke of the unoccupied bedroom just below the attic.

With two beds shoved into the small space, the best part of the girls' bedroom was the view of the orchard through the window next to Hermione's desk. It was early afternoon so warm light bathed the room. The memorial for Lee would be held on the grounds near night fall. It would not be a big affair, because a concentration of so many of the Dark Lord's followers would draw unneeded attention. 

They deposited their belongings in their room but did not tarry. On the next floor up, the landing opened to two doors, one of which had been scarcely opened since Percy's seventeenth birthday. The other belonged to the twins. Ginny knocked firmly against the aged wood. She waited a beat then entered cautiously. Unlike Hermione, she knew better than to just casually stroll inside. She had once stepped on a slipper with her bare foot before she started Hogwarts and nearly lost three toes from the wonky charm placed upon it.

Fred was stretched out across the bed, staring blankly at the ceiling. His twin, George, was seated at the window with his forehead leaning against the glass. There was a frayed bandage wrapped around his left hand. It was the calmest either of the girls had ever witnessed their bedroom, and it was unsettling. Ginny watched where she stepped as she ambled to Fred's bed. Shoving aside his legs, she crawled onto the end of it and sat down. Hermione perched herself on the empty bed across from them.

“Mrs. Jordan owled this morning,” said Fred. His voice was dull. He picked at the fresh scab on his elbow, considering it as if it held all the answers which swirled around in his mind. George's eyes flashed to his twin's actions, but he said nothing even as a dark expression clouded his face. “She's asked us both to speak.” 

“You are going to, aren't you?” asked Hermione for the sake of avoiding the heavy silence which threatened to envelop them. Only George looked over at her, eyebrows raised as if questioning her intelligence. It was not often that she resorted to such obvious questions. Fred merely picked at the scab on his elbow. She narrowed her eyes at him, unable to assess his strange behavior and uncomfortable not knowing. “What happened?” 

He ignored her for a moment, running the tip of his pointer finger along the healing abrasion across his elbow. She looked helplessly at George, but, for once, the twin was of no help. Finally, just as she considered addressing Fred's odd demeanor, he spoke, “Percy saved my life.” 

The other three in the room gawked at him. He carefully avoided meeting their eyes, choosing instead to continue to fuss over his scab like he had not just dropped significant information in their laps. Hermione and Ginny turned simultaneously toward George, but, for once, he was as flabbergasted as they were. 

“Come again, mate. Did you just say a blood traitor  _saved_ your life?” demanded George. 

“Damned bastard tackled me to the ground. I could have killed him— _should_  have killed him—but he saved my life,” said Fred. He glanced up at his twin to see the wide-eyed expression on the identical face. “It's the first time I've seen my brother face-to-face in five bloody years, and the first time I've ever disobeyed a direct order from the Dark Lord, and I can't say that I would do a damned thing different if I had a Time-Turner on me.” 

There was a pause, and then Hermione hesitantly ventured, because nobody else seemed inclined to speak, “I don’t… understand? Percy is the one who turned his back on us. The Dark Lord doesn’t look kindly upon those who refuse him. Why would Percy save your life? He knows the bounty on his head.” 

“I stopped trying to figure out my brother the day he walked away from swearing his allegiance to the Dark Lord,” retorted Fred. He sat up to rest upon his elbows so that he could meet her gaze. “Just don’t mention it to anyone, all right? Because it’s not only my neck which would be at stake here. It’d be Bill’s as well. He got Percy out of there—used a portkey to get him away.” 

The door to the twins’ room opened to allow Bill and Charlie to enter the room. They did without waiting for any type of welcome. They sat down on either side of Hermione, and it was just like old times with all the Weasley children gathered in one room. In the years before Bill then Charlie and then the twins had moved out of the Burrow, the siblings had made it a point to get together at least once a week in one room or another to catch up on each other’s lives. A few of those occasions, especially in the earlier years, Percy had been among them. As the children of the prestigious Weasley family, it was so easy to lose track of each other but so necessary to know what everyone was doing. Lesser families had fallen under the strain of miscommunication.

“Talking about Percy, are you?” asked Bill knowingly. Sweat glistened across his forehead. He had been in the cellars beneath the house working on rebuilding them. Charlie had, too, if the dust all over his robes was anything by which to go. “I suppose none of you have heard the latest orders? That we’re to lead a full-on assault against the residence of Andromeda Tonks?” 

“That’s where you sent Percy?” asked Charlie just to clarify. He was sporting a fresh burn mark across his right forearm, evidence of how closely a frazzled spell had struck him. He looked at Fred then at Bill. “Think either of you can do it? Heed the Dark Lord’s order to capture our own brother? Or kill him, if he resists?” 

“Us? What about you?” responded Fred. 

“I’m not worried about me,” admitted Charlie. There was a green tinge to Bill’s face next to him as if he already knew what Charlie had to say. “Rookwood ratted on the two of you. Said he saw it all, how Percy saved your life, Fred, and you, Bill, sent him away. The Dark Lord’s not too happy. That’s why he’s pushing this mission. This is your time to prove your loyalties to him.” 

“By killing our own brother?” asked Fred, voice weak. He did not look pleased with the idea. He could still feel the fear which built inside of him as he stared at the spell flying his way and then the relief which overwhelmed him as his savoir, his brother, shoved him to safety. Once upon a time, he would not have hesitated to follow the Dark Lord’s orders, but now that he considered the heroic, though stupid, actions of his estranged brother on his behalf, he questioned his own resolve against Percy.

They were the Weasleys, and family meant something to them. If it did not, then they were no better than the Blacks who had turned their backs on the ways of old. The siblings could pretend to hate Percy as much as their own consciences would allow them to lie to themselves, but the truth of it all was that Percy was blood. He was a Weasley. Once a Weasley, always a Weasley—no matter how far he may have strayed from the family. 

George shifted in his seat at the window so that he turned to face his siblings. His back was to the sunlight which streamed into the room and cast shadows across war-toned his face. He looked at his twin and then at Charlie, saying, “Fred owes Percy his life. We’ll worry about whether any of us will actually kill him when the time comes.”

Then, without saying anything further, he hopped down from the window and strolled out of the room. The memorial would commence in a couple of hours. There were many things to do before then. There would be plenty of time later to worry about orders and killing brothers and all of the other horrors of the war.

 

* * * * *

 

In the ancestral manor of the Malfoy family, Narcissa strolled down the long corridor in her night robes. She stopped at the last door, and, after knocking, entered. Three four-poster beds circled the large room, which had been specifically designated for such occasions when the all three boys stayed the night. Draco, Harry, and Neville had always insisted upon sharing a bedroom whenever staying at one another’s homes. At Malfoy Manor, each of the boys had their own bedrooms, but only Draco’s was used on a regular basis since the other two wizards stayed at their own homes.

“Your mum just owled me, Harry. She wants you to stop by her office first thing when you get back in the morning.” 

Seated upon the bed to Narcissa’s right, Harry nodded in acknowledgement of her statement. He was already wearing the clothes in which he would sleep, but Draco was still dressed in his daily robes. Neville was absent from the room, though Narcissa assumed he was freshening up before bed. She strolled across the room and placed a soft kiss to Harry’s forehead then to Draco’s. Oliver’s memorial had been a trying affair for each of them.

“I’ll make breakfast for you before you have to go back to Hogwarts. Be up and ready early.” 

Narcissa waited until Neville returned to the bedroom so that she could give him a motherly kiss as well. Similar to Lily and Alice, she viewed all three boys as her own. They had all been born around the same time—Draco in early June and the other two at the end of July. The Order consumed so much of their lives that the boys were more like brothers than friends. When they had been eleven and had gone off to Hogwarts for the first time, Narcissa had sat around the tiny table at the Longbottoms’ residence with Alice and Lily. Steaming mugs of tea had gone cold as they eagerly awaited the owls which would reveal their sons’ houses. On some level, Narcissa had hoped that Draco would follow his parents’ footsteps into the house of Slytherin, but she selfishly wanted all three of them together. They had been scarcely separated throughout their entire lives by that point, and she doubted that Neville would ever step foot into Slytherin. A snowy white owl, Harry’s Hedwig, had arrived first, carrying a tiny letter with a simple sentence reading:  _We made it to Gryffindor—all of us._  That had been the single greatest letter she had ever received, as she realized that her son would have his two brothers at his side for at least the next seven years. 

“Oh, and, Draco, dear, I have washed your socks. Do remember to take them back with you.” 

“Of course, Mother,” replied Draco, ignoring the smug look Neville shot his way. Narcissa cast a soft smile at her son then stepped out of the room. The door clicked shut behind her. Draco sat down on the edge of his bed and tugged off his socks. Balling them up, he launched them at Neville.

“Hey!” exclaimed Neville, nose crinkling in distaste as the balled up socks struck his jaw then bounced to the floor. He kicked the socks away from him toward Draco’s bed. “Why’s it always me that you bother with your dirty socks? Why not Harry?” 

“Have you seen Harry with a wand? He’d bloody curse me!” retorted Draco, flouring his hand toward Harry. There was a smirk of anticipation on his face. It was a practiced dance between him and Neville, which had carried over from their childhood obsession with the game of Wizard’s Chess. They still played the game often, and most of their greatest disagreements had, in some form or fashion, originated on the checkered board.

“As if I wouldn’t? I swear, Draco! Mad-Eye taught me that spell, you know. I  _will_  turn you into a ferret!” roared Neville, whipping his wand toward the Malfoy heir.

Draco threw up his hands in surrender, cheeks flushing at the memory of Mad-Eye Moody’s special visit to their fourth year Transfiguration class. Being the son of Order members, and also having known Mad-Eye his entire life, Draco had been chosen as the guinea pig for the demonstration of offensive human Transfiguration spells. Draco’s arrogance had unfortunately shone through. After a snide remark had fallen carelessly from his lips, which might have been appropriate for a dinner conversation but not in a classroom setting, Mad-Eye had vindictively transformed him into a ferret. Neville had howled with laughter at the spectacle, prompting Professor McGonagall to dock Gryffindor ten house points. But Neville had not cared, too pleased with the sight of his best friend bouncing as a ferret to care about any measly points. 

To make matters worse, word of his ghastly transformation had reached the ears of one Luna Lovegood, a quirky Ravenclaw in the year below him who had loose ties to the Order through her father's publication of  _The Quibbler_. A few months later, Draco's normally pale face had turned a tickled pink as he stuttered his way through an invitation to the Yule Ball. She had mercifully asked only once if he preferred the species of ferret. Neville had howled in laughter again, his booming chuckle echoing in the Entrance Hall, before Harry, sporting a smirk himself, had dragged him toward the dungeons. Draco's embarrassment meant very little in the end. She said yes. 

A loud bang sounded in the house, silencing whatever retort Draco may have had. The three wizards froze. Neville slowly lowered his wand as he snapped his head toward the bedroom door. A second bang echoed in the manor. The wizards sprang into action. Harry grabbed his wand from the foot of his bed and dashed after Neville and Draco to the corridor. The alarm which signaled a breach in the wards surrounding the estate blared shrilly. A cold chill ran down Harry's spine as the trio darted toward the stairs.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Harry reveled in the thrill of it all. Much like James and Sirius before him, he aspired to one day work for the Auror Department. He had, after all, grown up as a child of the Order and had seen the horror which evil was capable of committing. He had lost loved ones in the line of fighting, Oliver being the most recent of the long list. He was no stranger to dangerous situations, either. As a tiny first year, he had fought off a troll in the toilets on the third floor just months before he, Draco, and Neville broke hundred of school rules on their quest to obtain the stone before Voldemort's followers could locate it. Three years later, Harry's name had been entered into the Goblet of Fire, much to the distress of his parents. It had been the scheme of a nameless Death Eater to destroy the Order by placing one of their children in the most dangerous of all competitions. Draco and Neville's names had also been entered, they later found out, but it had been Harry's name which had erupted from the goblet. The three had also embarked on a personal journey to rescue Sirius from the depths of the Department of Mysteries when it seemed that nobody else knew what was happening. Only a couple of weeks prior, he had been among the students who defended Hogwarts against Arthur Weasley's raid. His entire life prepped him for situations like this.

But nothing in the world—not even the questionable art of divination—could have prepared Harry for the sight in the marvelous foyer of the Malfoy Manor. Narcissa Black Malfoy, mother figure to Harry and Neville and precious birth mother to Draco, lay sprawled out like a fallen angel. Blue eyes staring vacantly at the ceiling, her pale skin and blonde hair stood in contrast to the dark marble floor. Neville's gasp of horror was loud in Harry's ear. Harry stumbled down the steps, clutching the banister like a life line. His wand felt useless in his hand, like a mere stick of wood without any magical property. 

"Mother!" screamed Draco, careless of the shrill alarm. He leaped the final few steps and landed on the ground floor into a crouch before he bounded toward the prone form of Narcissa. He fell to his knees next to her, skidding a little ways across the smooth marble. He felt for her pulse but found nothing. "Mother—no!" 

It was the worst sound Harry had ever heard in his life. He felt like he needed to vomit, but he swallowed against it. The alarm continued to ring loudly, reminding him of the danger which they faced. As much as he, too, wanted to cradle Narcissa's dead body in his arms, he knew better than to drop his guard. He waved at Neville then pointed in the opposite direction as a silent command to scope out the area. Walking toward the kitchen, he stuck his head into every door he passed.

Footsteps thundered across the marbled floor, and Harry instantly turned his wand toward the intruder. It was only Lucius, dressed in a traveling cloak. His gray eyes were wide, the color of them darker from worry. His own wand was clutched in his hand, the serpent handle digging into his palm. Harry opened his mouth to respond but found that he did not have the words to speak. He, instead, glanced over his shoulder toward the foyer. Lucius followed his line of sight, choking as realization fell over him. Whatever colored stained his face fled, leaving it ashen. He stumbled toward Narcissa. Harry heard the first  _pops_  of Apparition of the Order members, evident by the unmistakable gleam of Nymphadora Tonks’ bubblegum pink hair.

The alarm silenced instantly in the fury of the Order. For a long moment, the only sounds to be heard were the pattering of footfalls against the unyielding ground and the sobs of the father and son over the dead body of Narcissa. Harry’s wand trembled in his hand. He felt as though all of the air had been sucked out of the manor. Lily strolled into the manor through the kitchen, face crumbling as she spotted the Malfoy family. She stopped in front of Harry and gathered him into her arms, careless of any potential threat which might have remained on the property. Behind her, Minerva McGonagall let out a long sigh as she, too, took in the scene. 

“Here, take this,” commanded Lily, stepping back from Harry. She dug a folded bit of newspaper out of the pocket of her traveling robes. Tapping it with her wand, she thrust it at her son. Harry stared at it. “Take Neville and Draco back to Grimmauld Place. Andromeda and Alice are waiting.” Nodding, Harry stepped back from his mother. “And, Harry? Love, don’t let Draco out of your sight, all right?” 

It was as if Harry had stepped outside of his own body. His feet moved of their own accord toward the foyer, where Draco clung to the body of his dead mother. Neville hovered about them, eyes wet. Lucius sat on his knees staring at Narcissa with a blank expression written across his face as he ignored Regulus and Remus’ attempt to remove him from her side. The newspaper felt heavy in Harry’s hand by the time he reached Neville. Wordlessly, the pair helped Draco up to his feet, whose eyes never left Narcissa as he allowed Neville to support most of his weight. Harry placed the newspaper into Draco’s slack hand, and they swirled into darkness.

They landed as a trio on the soft carpet of the formal sitting room at Grimmauld Place. Draco’s knees buckled instantly, the gravity of the past few minutes overwhelming him. Neville grunted under his weight and dragged him to the nearby sofa. Harry dropped the newspaper to the floor as Alice and Andromeda entered the room. They took in the sight before them and seemed to instantly know what had happened. 

“Who…?” 

Harry opened his mouth to answer Andromeda’s softly spoken question, but, like earlier when facing Lucius, immediately shut it. He could not find his voice to tell her that her younger sister was dead so he was thankful when Neville forced the name, “Narcissa,” past his lips. Andromeda blinked her dark eyes, uncomprehending, then fell to pieces where she stood. Alice guided her to a straight-back chair, face grim with loss. 

From the first floor landing, the ancient grandfather chimed twelve times, and a sickening feeling welled up inside of Harry as he realized the new day had dawned without Narcissa Malfoy.  


	7. Snake in the Sky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Remus reads. Ron likens the library to a prison. Draco broods in a corner.

Remus took a sip of his pumpkin juice then set his mug down on a stack of parchments he needed to grade. The burning lantern on the corner of his desk provided just enough light for him to read the tiny print in the ancient book that was propped open in front of him. Theories of alternate universes swirled around in his mind, nearly disorienting him in their complexities. Anything, however, was better than focusing on the somber memory of Narcissa’s death.

It had been nearly a week since the attack on Malfoy Manor. Narcissa’s memorial had taken place the next day, because Lucius said he did not want to drag out the mourning period for his dear wife. He had immersed himself into spying for the Order and spending a ridiculous amount of time at the Ministry, or so Andromeda had informed Remus. She had graciously opened her home to her dear brother-in-law since he did not wish to remain in the manor so soon after his wife’s death; however, he had not spent much time there.

Draco had dealt with his mother’s death in the typical Malfoy manner: by withdrawing into himself. He was silent when he would have normally been arrogant, reclusive when he would have normally enjoyed attention, and gloomy when he would have normally laughed. Everybody seemed to tread lightly around him, treating him like fragile glass which might shatter at any given moment. Even Neville and Harry, who knew Draco better than themselves, struggled to comfort him in his most trying time.

Forced to return to Hogwarts the day after the memorial, Draco had skived his prefect duties in favor of sitting in the vacant Astronomy Tower overlooking the expansive school grounds. He had even avoided the quidditch pitch, though Harry had scheduled rigorous practices in preparation for Saturday’s match. The Malfoy heir had more to worry about over the next few weeks than winning the Quidditch Cup or passing his upcoming N.E.W.T.s. It was unnerving how much could change in such a short amount of time.

There was a soft knock at the door to Remus’ office, and in walked James Potter. His glasses set low upon the bridge of his nose so he pushed them up as he strolled to the desk. He whipped out his wand and conjured a chair in which he sat down. He was no longer dressed in his work robes but had rather changed into comfortable muggle clothes.

“Thought you might need a hand,” he said. He picked up the corner of Remus’ opened book and pulled out the text below it. Laying it on top of an array of parchments, he flipped through the pages until he reached the specified section on universe theories. He had spent a lot of time researching alternate universes over the past few weeks so he immediately knew where to begin reading. “Lily’s hosting a few Slytherins in detention.”

Remus hummed in his throat to acknowledge James’ statement, but he offered no response. A silence began to seep between the men, threatening to overwhelm them with its weight. The old pages of Remus’ book crackled loudly as he turned to the next section. His latest round of searching had thus far proved fruitless. He could only hope this book contained information pertinent to the mysterious appearance of Ron Weasley.

"You haven't spoken to Lucius, have you?" asked Remus a few moments later when the silence became too much to bear. It set uneasily at the back of his throat, making it hard to breathe. He spoke with more of a desire to fill the silence than to know how badly the wizard in question was dealing with his wife's death.

They had all witnessed Lucius shrouded in the shadow of the death of a loved one. They had witnessed him tear himself apart over the death Ted Tonks, his brother-in-law and best friend. Serving together in the Department of Magical Education then eventually on the Hogwarts Board of Governors, it had been Ted who had taken Lucius under his wing. But everything had crashed nearly eight years ago when Bellatrix Lestrange had led a successful attack on the Minister for Magic Millicent Bagnold, killing her and five others, including Ted, in an attempt to topple the Ministry. When Dumbledore finally succumbed to the pressure to leave his Hogwarts sanctuary for the head of the magical government, Bellatrix Lestrange's attack was rendered fruitless. The damage, though, had already been done. Ted Tonks was dead, and Lucius retreated from the arms which tried to comfort him. He threw himself into spying for the Order and never looked back. He was doing the same thing again in the wake of Narcissa's death.

"Wormtail said he saw him at Lestrange Manor. At least he's helping out the Order and not wallowing in pity. Narcissa would never stand for that," responded James. He tried to laugh, but the somber subject did not allow it. He ran a hand through his hair, messing it up even more than it already was. "Lucius is a fighter. He'll pull through. This is just how he deals with loss. He spies, and you read."

Remus snorted, briefly. His eyes scanned the weathered page before him as the tension in the air distilled. Next to him, James flipped aimlessly through his own book. For the next little while, the two wizards basked in their companionship, safe in the presence of the other. Remus ran his pointer finger along the tiny script as he read then, turning the page, paused.

"Er, Prongs? I think I know how Ron Weasley got here. It's the Hummingbird Curse," he said. James looked up from his own reading and blinked in confusion at his friend. Sighing, Remus pointed to the emboldened words. "It's extremely complex wand work. Essentially, this curse latched onto Ron's soul and ripped it from his own universe. Since his soul had to go somewhere, it fled here, where there's a void for him."

James abandoned his own text to lean closer to Remus’. He flitted his eyes across the tiny script, each word confirming his friend’s brief explanation. When he finished, he sat back in his chair and lowered his eyebrows in thought. He was quiet for a moment before he decided to speak.

"So you're telling me that when Voldemort killed Ron here eighteen years ago as a baby, the universe kept the void for him, allowing his counterpart soul to fill it now? But wait—didn't I establish that last week when we spoke with Dumbledore? That's the Doppelganger Void Theory."

"Actually, it's the Hummingbird Universe Theory, but there are similarities," Remus disagreed. He skimmed across the tiny script written on the old page, mouth moving to the tempo of the words. The information was scarce. "It says here, 'the unidentified team of Unspeakables in the Department of Mysteries stumbled upon the Hummingbird Universe Theory when a previously-dead bird appeared in the Time Room without precedence. The researchers were unable to comment upon the exact nature of their findings due to the Unbreakable Vow of Secrecy by which each are sworn.' This book is about thirty years old so, relatively speaking, this is actually new information in the realm of universe theories. That’s probably why we hadn’t spotted it before now."

"That's something to pass onto Dumbledore at any rate," said James. He pushed away his book and leaned back in his chair, stretching as if he had sat there for endless hours. His mind was fuzzy from all of the theories he had read. The book that lay opened in front of him was completely unhelpful. Folding his arms across his chest, he peered up at the ceiling. "Isn't this the room we initially forgot to draw in on the Map? Then had to add it in after Filch snuck up on Padfoot?"

Just like that, the books were forgotten as Remus, too, desired a break from the research. They had found enough information to pass along for now so the pair of wizards, instead, joyfully reminisced about their own times as students. Remus' way of dealing with loss may have been to lose himself to books, but James' way—sitting around and talking with loved ones—provided just as good of a distraction.

By the time James left Remus to return to his own personal quarters which he shared with Lily, his wife was lying in bed grading a stack of parchments. He readied himself to go to sleep before he joined her, changing out of his comfortable muggle clothes into something more suitable. Sitting down on the bed, he placed a soft kiss on her cheek then rested his chin on her shoulder. She scratched her quill across the top of Ginny Weasley's Charms essay.

"Moony's brilliant. He thinks he found out how Ron got here: the Hummingbird Universe Theory," announced James, beaming proudly. He watched as Lily wrote an 'E' on the Charms essay then moved to the next.

"I've heard of it," confirmed Lily, as he knew she would. She was silent for a moment as her eyes skimmed the next essay. The corners of her mouth turned down in distaste, and he had to bite back a smile. "If you're going to read over my shoulder, do me a favor and look over this stack." She flicked her wand and parchments zoomed through the air to land in his lap. "Second year Charms essays. They shouldn't be too hard."

James rolled his eyes at her, and, though her attention was still captured by the essay in front of her, she flashed a grin of amusement. He shifted until he sat similar to her, straight back against the pillows propped by the wall. When he searched for a quill in the jumble of items in the drawer to his bedside table, he came up empty. His own wand was carefully nestled between the pillows so he reached for it to use it to summon a quill. It was not until he set the wand back down that he realized, with a fond smile, it was Lily's he had used.

They graded essays for a while as the night grew later. Over the years of their marriage and of the war, they had learned to set aside time to just spend together. It was easy to forget to spend time with cherished loved ones when more important matters—life changing matters such as deaths and kidnappings and battles—consumed so much of their day-to-day routine. James did not mind grading the Charms essays. His own knowledge on the subject was enough to ensure his admittance to Mad-Eye Moody's team of Aurors so he was more than qualified to read second year work.

The passing time served as a semblance of normality which had been lacking in their lives over the past couple years of the seemingly endless war. It was nice to just sit side-by-side and complete a mundane task that was far away from the war on their doorstep. But, unfortunately, it was not to last long. The Patronus arrived much like other carriers of bad news: unexpected and all of a sudden. The silvery large dog apparition appeared at the foot on the bed, and Sirius' voice, wrapped up in anxiety, boomed loudly, saying, "Wormtail's missing. Flat's in shambles. Dark Mark's high in the sky. Come quickly."

James leaped from the bed, hand instinctively grasping the nearest wand he could reach. It was his, this time. The stack of parchments fell to the floor in Lily's haste to retrieve her own wand, fanning out like the first good snowfall of winter. For a split second, they stared at each other and shared identical horror. Peter had skated the line between Voldemort and Dumbledore for almost twenty years. It seemed as if his luck had run out. Never had there been an attempt on Peter's life. The others—James, Sirius, Remus, and even Lily—had been forced into hiding various times over the years, but Peter had always been guaranteed the protection of Voldemort's arrogant ignorance.

The anti-Apparition wards of Hogwarts had been strengthened following the direct assault led by Arthur Weasley a few weeks prior so James and Lily's only form of instant transportation was by the floo network which was connected to their own personal fireplace. Since Remus and Peter's flat was only a few streets away from Diagon Alley, first Lily, and then James, traveled through a whirl of green flames to the Leaky Cauldron. The business was closed for the night, but the public access gate was never closed to the members of the Order of the Phoenix due to an old agreement with Dumbledore.

The streets were empty, as if they themselves were an eerie warning which preceded the atrocity that was the rubble of Remus and Peter's shared flat. Blown to shambles, hardly anything was recognizable. A bright green skull with a snake erupting from its mouth burned brightly in the sky like a firework frozen in time. James' hand trembled around his wand as he and Lily approached the trio of gathered Order members. Dumbledore's aged face was grim as he surveyed the flat. Remus and Sirius stood solemnly on either side of him.

"It was Bellatrix," said Sirius, turning his head toward James' though his steely gray eyes remained on the destruction before him. The mess of the flat—overturned furniture, shattered glass, scorched walls, blood-stained carpet—suggested that Peter had not gone peacefully. "Wormtail sounded the alarm, but by the time anybody got here, it was too late. I caught a glimpse of Bellatrix just before she Disapparated. Couldn't track her. I estimate there was a team of about four or five, and Wormtail gave them a run for their money. He fought 'em, but let's face it: he didn't really have a chance."

"Voldemort found out, didn't he? About Wormtail’s true loyalty?" asked James, though he already suspected the answer. There was a churning feeling in the pit of his stomach, which echoed the paleness of the others’ faces. Some part of him wished for Dumbledore to provide an alternate answer as to why Peter was attacked. But the larger part of him, the part which had suffered five weeks as a captive of the Death Eaters, knew the naivety of such an endeavor.

"We need to strengthen the wards on the remaining safe houses and then send a search party after Peter. Remus, it would probably be best if you did not return and rather found a different place to stay for a while, even after the conclusion of the school term," instructed Dumbledore, choosing not to respond directly to James’ question. His avoidance was answer enough. The green light which splashed across his aged face enhanced the bleak expression on his face as he gazed upon the ruins of the flat.

 

* * * * *

 

Ron lay in bed, staring at the opposite wall in the second floor bedroom of Grimmauld Place. He had finally been released by Madam Pomfrey from the Hospital Wing and had been offered a place to stay by Sirius following the impromptu Order meeting in which Ron had told the others as much as he dared. Unknown to Sirius or to Regulus, they offered him the same bedroom he and Harry had shared in his home universe. It was better kept in this universe but no more homey. Regardless of its state or of the memories it contained, he had jumped at the opportunity to leave the monotonous infirmary.

The house was quiet, reminding him of the time he, Harry, and Hermione had used its counterpart as a hideout while searching for the Horcruxes. That felt like a lifetime ago. He wondered where they were, if they knew he had gone missing or if time had stopped moving forward in the universe which he left. It had probably continued unhindered by his disappearance, though. By this time, surely, Voldemort had been defeated, and they were all enjoying the first days of freedom from his terror. Maybe they were looking for him. He hoped so, because as many good things as this universe had that his did not—Harry's parents, Sirius, Tonks, Dumbledore, and even Fred were all still alive—he longed for home, for a world in which his family defeated the dark arts and his best friends were by his side. Even when he had spent weeks desperately searching for Harry and Hermione after he had stormed out on them, he had never felt as alone as he now did.

It was the loneliness which propelled Ron from his bed. He could not lie awake pondering his situation any longer so he exited his bedroom. Briefly, he considered going down to the kitchen to get a drink of water, but memories of his mother taking dominion over it in his universe directed his footsteps to the family library a floor above him. Two years ago in his own world, he had spent a bit of time in the library to escape the insanity which flurried around the reestablishment of the Order. It had offered him solace back then, and he hoped it would again.

When he entered the library, it was not as empty as he had expected. He froze in the doorway, the closed door looming behind him like a locked prison gate. A figure stood at the window overlooking the sleepy street outside. His back was to Ron, but the curly mess of flaming red hair was impossible to miss. A gasp escaped from Ron's lips, and he wished instantly that he could retract it. Startled, Percy turned around, hand reaching for the wand sticking out of the pocket of his trousers. A long moment passed between them.

"You're him? You're Ron, my—my brother?"

It was strange, Ron thought, to stand before his own elder brother who thought he was dead, who never got the chance to grow up with him or argue with him. The wizard standing before him was undoubtedly Percy Weasley. Ron would recognize the way he held himself, with an air of self-confidence many others envied, anywhere. This Percy was not quite the one with whom Ron had grown up. He was war-hardened, but, beyond that, he was also wary of his surroundings. Like a wizard who had lost more than he could spare.

"I am."

Percy was silent for a beat and then said, his voice soft against the quietness of the house, "They said your world's different than this, that our entire family fights against Lord Voldemort to make things better."

"We do."

There was a silence that neither wizard knew how to divert. It hung heavily in the air between them. Ron stayed by the door, staring at the counterpart of his pompous elder brother whose back was to the window. This Percy did not look so pretentious. Ron recalled overhearing a conversation between Sirius and Regulus a few mornings earlier in which the brothers discussed the horrible impact Oliver Wood's sacrifice had had on Percy.

"Do you realize how bizarre this is?" asked Percy, breaking the silence. He blew out a long sigh and ran a trembling hand through the mess of curls atop his head. His glasses set askew upon his nose so he straightened them as he strolled over to a nearby arm chair and sat down. "You're—well, you're _dead_... This is impossible. I was old enough, you know, when you were... born. I remember it all. One day, M-Mother was expecting another child, the sixth of us. The next, she just wasn't. It was so scary." He paused for a moment, blue eyes widened as he considered Ron. His voice took on an awed tone. "I think that's what changed—in me, in the entire family. It was you who disbursed the family's fanaticism with the dark arts. It's just... some of us were affected more than others."

"I'm not him," said Ron with all the tact he could muster. He saw the glint in Percy's eyes and recognized the war-torn desperation which shined deep within them. His own counterpart had left a large void in this alternate universe, and it was such a void that he doubted his ability to fill or, rather, his desire to fill. He had his own life, one in which everybody about whom he cared fought for the greater good and had, certainly by this time, defeated Voldemort. To fully embrace this void, he would have to forsake all for which he had fought in his own universe. He could not do that, not when his own universe contained the Hermione with whom he had fallen in love and to whom he desired to return.

Percy regarded Ron for a moment, careless of his statement, and then asked, "Is he alive there? Is Oliver alive?"

"It's a very different world, Perce," said Ron, the childhood nickname falling easily from his lips. His elder brother blinked, taken aback, and it made him wonder if Percy had ever been called such a term of endearment by any in their family. "But the short answer is: yes. Or, at least, to the last of my knowledge, he was."

The response, though odd, comforted Percy. Since that fateful night of Oliver's capture, he had replayed every moment of the scouting mission in his mind. He had been stupid, impatient, when in all actuality, a scouting assignment was designed for one simple thing: to scout out the area. Dumbledore had not asked for the pair of them to breach the wards. Percy had allowed his impatience to get the best of him. It was what he hated the most about war: leaving comrades to rot in captivity. He had seen the horrors of which his family was capable. Sometimes it was hard for him to remember that not all wizarding children grew up in a twisted world full of darkness, greed, and hatred.

Ron observed his brother in the dim lighting of the ornate library. There was a familiar expression on Percy's face which Ron had seen many times throughout the last three years, especially from Harry following the deaths of Cedric Diggory then Sirius Black and then Albus Dumbledore. Percy blamed himself for Oliver's death. While Ron only knew the barest of specifics regarding the failed scouting mission and subsequent events in the cellars beneath the Burrow, he knew enough about war and about the nature of Death Eaters to know that Percy has misplaced his blame.

But Ron also knew the futility which saturated the act of trying to convince Percy of this. Harry had not listened, withdrawn as he became, following the death of godfather. Instead, he had raged after Bellatrix Lestrange to barrel right into Lord Voldemort himself. Ron's mind flashed to the broken body of Fred under the destruction of the Final Battle, and he understood Percy's plight with an aching pain. If not for Hermione, he would have run head first into his own demise, blinded as he was in the moments following Fred's death.

"I don't know the same Oliver that you do, but if he's anything like the one from my universe, then—"

The rest of Ron's statement was lost among the shrill sound of the alarm which rang through the entire house. His hand automatically reached for his wand, long fingers wrapping around the handle. Percy's face was warped with the same fear that Ron felt as the brothers dashed from the library. Ron led the way down the flights of stairs until they reached the ground floor. His elder brother was a comforting presence at his back.

The alarm continued to blare loudly, echoing off the walls in the corridor which twisted behind the stairs. Ron's heart pounded in his chest, but the landing was empty. He gazed wildly around him. Up the corridor toward the dining room or down the stairs to the kitchen, there was nothing which might have set off the alarm. He glanced at Percy in confusion.

"Must have been Kreacher," explained Percy, though his voice was thick with doubt. He flicked his wrist toward the ceiling, and, immediately, the alarm quieted. "He gets restless whenever he's stuck with only Sirius for too long, likes causing harmless trouble.”

Ron's mind flashed to Sirius' death in his own universe, which had been a result of Kreacher's dislike of his master. He swallowed against the urge to correct Percy, because Sirius was alive here so that did not matter. Instead, he nodded in recognition of his brother's statement as he ambled down the corridor. Something did not sit well in his mind. He had witnessed Mad-Eye Moody's work with enchantments in his own universe when he had tried to keep Snape from entering the compromised former headquarters located at this very place. He doubted any incarnation of Alastor Moody would be lax in the area of defense.

The soft patter of footsteps followed him down the corridor. He poked his head into the dining room, muttering a revealing spell. The room remained unbothered. Behind him, Percy took the hint and conducted a search of the room across the hall. They found nothing on the entirety of the ground floor. By the time they returned to the foot of the stairs, Ron begrudgingly admitted that the months on the run had frayed his nerves. Maybe Percy was right. Maybe it was just Kreacher who set off the alarms to annoy Sirius, because that was an easier explanation when they had found nothing out of the ordinary which might have disturbed the enchantments.

"It was bad, wasn't it?" asked Percy. Shadows danced across his freckled cheeks, and Ron was struck by how similar he looked to the Percy who had watched Fred die in the Battle of Hogwarts. He could have chalked it up to the death of Oliver but knew that was selling short Percy's experience as the only child of the lions in a nest of snakes. "The war which you fought—it was bad?"

"Yes," said Ron, because it was impossible to truly explain to this wizard the atrocities of a war which Percy had never experienced. The name Teddy Lupin meant nothing to him and neither did the laundry list of the deaths that had ravished the wizarding world. He did not know how it felt to tap a radio for hours on end in hopes of finally accessing _Potterwatch_ and then sit there helplessly, praying to not recognize any of the names of the missing or the dead.

Percy seemed to sense the weight which Ron's response carried. He stared at his younger brother for a long moment, wheels turning in his mind. He tried to picture Ron in the household in which he had grown up and wondered whether he would have, too, run at the first chance he got or if he would have stayed brainwashed among their siblings. The longer he contemplated it, the longer Percy was certain that Ron had no place in the Death Eater ranks.

In light of this realization, Percy did what a good big brother would do: he slung his arm around Ron's shoulders and guided him back to his bedroom. Ron was initially tense under his hold, but he relaxed as the pair ascended the steps. Percy may have not got to watch his younger brother grow up, may have been robbed of that experience before it could have even began, but he was going to make sure he more than up for it. He had already lost one brother. Though Ron would never replace Oliver, there was something about finally sharing blood with somebody who believed in the same morals which he did that he could not take for granted.

 

* * * * *

 

The Great Hall was loud as students chattered over their morning breakfast. Draco and Harry stumbled, sleepy and slightly disheveled, to the Gryffindor table where Neville was already seated with the newspaper clutched tightly in his hands. They had had Astronomy late last night, a class for which Neville had never particularly cared. Stars meant nothing to him, especially when he could be sleeping in a nice warm bed instead.

"Have you seen _The Prophet_ this morning?" asked Neville, voice scratchy. He tucked his bottom lip under his teeth and bit down in the nervous habit he had never broken. He knew what their answer would be, even as they hesitated in the midst of battling over the last piece of toast on the nearest platter, so he laid the newspaper flat in front of them. They leaned forward to read the front page article.

**Attack Close to Home, Senior Editor Missing**

_At approximately 1:08 AM this morning, Friday, 16 May 1998, a report was made to the Auror department of a disturbance near Diagon Alley in London. Aurors arrived within moments to the residence belonging to Remus Lupin, 38, professor of Defense Against the Dark Arts at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and Peter Pettigrew, 37, senior editor of_ The Daily Prophet _. Authorities found the flat in shambles and a Dark Mark (so-called because of its use as the signature left behind by Lord Voldemort or his Death Eaters. More on the exact nature of the Mark is found on page 13 under "Does your Tongue Resemble a Snake?") burning high above the sky. Pettigrew, the only resident during the school term, was deemed to be missing under suspicious circumstances. The Auror department has issued a search for his whereabouts. (If anybody has any information which may aid the search, owl the Aurors' Tip Hotline, include "P. Pettigrew" as the memo.) Obliviators worked diligently throughout the night to modify the memories of the unfortunate muggles in the area._

_Among the first responders was Head Auror Alastor "Mad-Eye" Moody, who refused to comment upon the nature of the investigation at the time of publication. Auror Sirius Black, schoolmate and longtime friend of both Pettigrew and Lupin, was on the scene as well but remained uncharacteristically silent on the subject, a far cry from the wizard's emotional outburst in the autumn of 1981 when fellow Auror James Potter's home was attacked under similar circumstances. The esteemed Minister for Magic Albus Dumbledore, headmaster of Hogwarts when Pettigrew and Lupin attended in the 1970s, has asked... (continued under "Pettigrew" on page 4)._

Harry finished reading first and sat back abruptly in his seat. His chest was tight with horror. Draco mimicked him a few seconds later, his gray eyes glued to the official Ministry photograph of Peter which was juxtaposed next to the article. Slowly, he looked up at Neville, as if pleading for the news to be a part of some elaborate hoax. But he knew better. Even as he met Neville's eyes, he knew that there was no mistaking the article. Peter Pettigrew, the man to whom each of the three had always looked up as an uncle, was missing, just like James had been and like Frank and Alice had been. Only worse, because he was a spy for the Order. Voldemort did not deal kindly with dissenters.

Glancing around the Great Hall, Harry noticed the absence of his parents and of Remus. It was only to be expected, but it did not help to lessen the anxiety which built up in him. He remembered his father's capture and the resulting five weeks during which the Order nearly ran itself into the ground trying to rescue him. He expected no less of an effort on Peter's behalf.

Silently, Draco stood up from the table, no longer looking as keen for breakfast as he initially had been. Harry and Neville's attention snapped to him as he stalked away from the table. He disappeared through the large door. Neville turned to look at Harry, and the two wizards wordlessly agreed to follow him. They scrambled from the table. Dashing out of the Great Hall, they were already too late. Draco was nowhere to be seen.

Over the past week, they had studied Draco's habitual disappearances—the times he took for himself to just sit alone—and knew there were only a few places on the grounds he could have gone. It was only a matter of guessing in which place he had sought refuge this time. In their hesitation, a group of Slytherins sauntered toward them. Neville's hand automatically reached for his wand which was safely tucked away in the pocket of his robes, completely unlike Harry's habit of sticking it in the back pocket of his trousers.

"He was always a bit of a rat, wasn't he? That Peter Pettigrew?" sneered Ginny Weasley, full of contempt. Neville assumed it was mostly because Peter had managed to infiltrate the Weasley family so intimately. She had always been a bit of a spitfire, but she had a malicious streak of the capacity of a true Weasley. "Maybe they'll feed _him_ to the rats. It'd quite poetic, wouldn't it? I might even mention that to the Dark Lord himself."

Neville snorted, response involuntary though not regretted. Next to him, Harry's hand was wrapped around his own wand, but neither wizard had raised their weapons yet. The Slytherins—Hermione, Pansy, and Nott surrounded Ginny like bodyguards to a queen—stood in a similar defensive position, wands at the ready.

"I doubt Voldemort even knows your name," retorted Neville. There had been a time when the mere name of Weasley had intimidated him, but over five years had passed since a Weasley unleashed the terrifying basilisk upon the school—since he himself had fallen victim to the petrifying beast, fighting as he had been alongside Harry in the hidden chamber beneath the haunted toilets on the first floor. It had only been a reflexive glance, a bird’s song loud in his ears, but the distorted reflection in a shining sliver of metal of a pair of eerie red eyes had been his downfall. The next he knew, he awoke in the hospital wing a week later to Draco's distressed face bent over his and the taste of the Mandrake Restorative Draught bitter in the back of his mouth.

"How are Mummy and Daddy, Longbottom?" sneered Ginny, lips curled darkly. She reminded Neville a lot of her older twin brothers: stubborn, daring, and a force with which to be reckoned. Few had ever dared to stand up to them when they had graced the corridors of Hogwarts, and it seemed that she possessed that same quality.

Neville stepped forward, wand rising as a curse sprang to his mind, but Harry's lightning-fast reflexes restrained him. Sometimes he hated that both his friends had such a fascination with quidditch, because it hindered him in moments such as these. But then he caught sight of the head of Slytherin house emerge from the dungeons. Professor Severus Snape's dark eyes swept over the group, lips thin as he contemplated the situation.

"They're good, thank you," responded Neville coldly.

"Yeah, they said it was nothing, the hospitality they received at your lovely... home," added Harry, careless of Professor Snape's hovering presence. He had always regarded Alice and Frank highly and would not stand to allow a free pass to insult their honor. "They said your brother's losing his touch. Bill, isn't it? Sloppy wandwork, apparently."

A flash of anger burned like fire in Ginny's eyes, but it was Hermione's wand from which a bright jet of light erupted. It flew through the air. Neville stepped back from it, momentarily forgetting his own magic in favor of saving himself. Harry, on the other hand, merely flicked his wrist and vanished the curse. There was a smirk which tugged at his lips as he raised his weapon to retaliate.

"Potter! Longbottom!" snapped Professor Snape, stepping forward to finally interrupt the students. Harry's expression hardened. For as long as he could remember, the Potions master had disliked him. Remus once told Harry, in the privacy of his office, that he looked too much like James for Professor Snape to ever give him a chance. Harry had not cared. It had been a compliment, even if said compliment ended up making him lose numerous house points over the past seven years. Sometimes he entertained the idea of what Professor Snape might have done if the Sorting Hat had placed Harry in Slytherin like it had considered doing—if he would have taken precious points from his own house in spite of James Potter's legacy or politely ignored Harry's existence to the best of his ability. "The Headmistress is quite clear on the policy of fighting within her school. Ten points from Gryffindor—each. As for my Slytherins—Granger, Weasley, Parkinson, Nott—I believe you each have History of Magic and Arithmancy now, correct? I suggest you attend your class."

The Slytherins, grinning identically ear-to-ear, obliged Professor Snape's dismissal. As they left, Ginny shot the pair of wizards a dirty look. Harry folded his arms across his chest, wand in plain view, and resisted the urge to point out that Professor Snape had not also deducted points from Slytherin. But he was not a naïve first year any longer. He could count on one hand the number of times Professor Snape took points away from his own house, and every single time had been in the presence of the Headmistress.

For a moment, Professor Snape lingered. His dark eyes were trained on the pair of wizards, narrowed slightly as he considered them. Both were the next generation Order members who would fight against the group of Slytherins he had just banished to History of Magic. Harry turned to face Professor Snape.

"If you are looking for Mister Malfoy, I believe I passed him near the kitchens."

With a curt nod, Professor Snape strolled away toward the Great Hall, where the last of breakfast was being served. Neville looked at Harry, eyebrows raised questioningly. It was no secret that between the Gryffindor trio, Professor Snape undoubtedly favored Draco Malfoy. In fact, the few times which he had taken sides against his own house, Draco had been somehow involved. Such as the Dementor incident four years prior when a gang of Slytherins, headed by Hermione and Ginny, had lured Dementors from their posts surrounding the grounds of Hogwarts to the quidditch pitch during a game between Gryffindor and Hufflepuff. The Dementors had affected Harry so badly—the basilisk fresh in his thirteen year old mind—that he had fallen from his broom. It was only thanks to Draco's stupendous dive to catch him and Professor McGonagall's quick wandwork that Harry did not plummet to his death. He had woken in the hospital wing hours later to a Gryffindor loss, a broken broomstick, and the news that Professor Severus Snape had done the unthinkable: taken one hundred points from his own house.

"He didn't have to take twenty points, you know. We're already struggling for the House Cup as it is," grumbled Neville as he and Harry headed for the kitchens. The pair technically had a study period and should be in the library prepping for their upcoming N.E.W.T.s, but there were more important things than schoolwork. It was not the first time either of them had forsaken studying in the years of their education.

The kitchens were not hard to find, especially since both wizards had known their location before they stepped foot at Hogwarts as official students. Harry did not grow up the son of a Marauder for nothing. A cascade of house elves descended upon them as they entered, and they unsuccessfully extracted themselves from the horde. The blond wizard who sat brooding in the corner with a mug of pumpkin juice looked on in amusement.

"Can Winky assist Master Harry? Master Neville?"

"Just a pumpkin juice for us both, thank you, Winky," responded Harry. Though he was not too thirsty, he did not know of another way to appease the house elves so he could join Draco. He had always like house elves, particularly the Malfoy family's elf, Dobby, who had taken a particular shining to Harry when he was younger and still regarded him, arguably, more than any of the Malfoys.

With a heavy heart, Harry sat down in the chair next to Draco. He smiled in thanks as the house elf immediately placed a mug of pumpkin juice before him then returned to her duties. Neville sat across from him on the other side of Draco and took a swig of his drink without prompt. He seemed no more inclined to break the silence between them as Harry felt.

"I'm sick of it all," murmured the Malfoy heir, but the others heard him plainly. A note of vulnerability remained undisguised in his voice. It was not often Draco voluntarily bared his thoughts. He preferred to hide behind riddles, snarky comments, and the brooding ruse he had constructed for himself. "I'm sick of this damned war and people dying and people missing. I'm sick of waking up every day and wondering if this is my day. If my number's up. Because let's face it: we're twiddling our thumbs here at Hogwarts. There are more important things than translating some obscure fairytale on a stupid standardized test. We should be out there fighting. We're of age. We have no business hiding behind these walls and pretending as though everything is just damned right with the world. Because it's not. Mother's dead, and Wormtail's missing, and that's just the tip of the whole magical iceberg."

Harry caught Neville's eye from across the table, and a mutual thought passed between them. Draco sounded like Percy. The three of them had heard the intimate details of the failed scouting mission which had resulted in Oliver's capture and later led to his death. They knew Percy's impatience had gotten the best of him, and there was an aura of impatience in Draco. There were many similarities between the disowned Weasley and the partially-orphaned Malfoy. Both wizards had spent some of, if not all of, their formative years in the clutches of the Dark Arts. Where Draco had officially escaped such confinement eight years earlier in the aftermath of Ted Tonks' death, Percy had been forced to walk away by his own sheer will. They had since watched their families rip themselves apart in the midst of the deadly war.

Neither Harry nor Neville knew what to say in response to Draco's spiel so they merely raised their mugs as if it had been a speech for a toast. Sitting there in the basement kitchens of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, the three wizards finally acknowledged that it was their turn to step up in the war. The days of sitting idly by were over, and if they were honest, those days had ended six years earlier when they had personally entered the forbidden third floor corridor to obtain the stone before Voldemort's followers could do so. They were children of the Order, and, as such, the war was theirs.


End file.
